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A Message Board Sayer

September 10th, 2014

Our carrier,
Which art in 3/4G,
Hallowed be thy signal.
Your message alerts come.
Our selfies done on earth,
As they were on wi-fi.
Give us this day our daily texts.
And forgive us our posts on Facebook,
As we forgive those that twitter against us
And lead us not into conversation,
But deliver us from being human .
For thine is the bandwidth,
The power, and the network ,
For contract lengths whatever.
We’re in.


Wake Me When I Get There.

August 7th, 2014

It’s been
awhile
since I slept
on a train
closing
my eyes
dreaming again
crossing
the miles
warm
from the rain
leaving
the whys
the from
to & when
pausing
this lifestyle
with little
to gain
chasing
the prize
yet never
the twain
it’s been
awhile
since
I slept
through
the strain
striving
to be wise
numbing
the pain
this world
told me
to smile
to be
one of them -
link up all
the chains
but every now
& then
I just undo
my brain
and think
how nice
it is
to dream
again
it’s been
too long
since I slept,
on a train.


Lodestone

May 6th, 2014

I like this,
borrowed though it is.
Borrowed from you -
oblique, as always,
reaching for balloons,
whispering to stones below,
wearing damp edged shoes,
chasing the sun
as children prefer to lose
some things that should not be,
shrinking like skylost dots
escaping from reminderings.
You know there’s no joy
in tightened wrists,
in cold knocked limbs,
in tethered minds -
you’ve seen this
many times,
and this you lend
it helps me now.
Thank you,
you are very
kind.


Chasing the Moon

April 22nd, 2014

I was chasing the Moon
On a road to somewhere new
Or was it chasing me?

Lost like a balloon
With the string cut and gone
Lost unto the breeze.

The road was a stream
As it flowed and carried on
To worried mystery.

Was I rushing too soon?
From the heart of who I am
Rushing to agree.

And I wailed like a loon
On a road to somewhere new
Wondering where I should be.

Singing lonesome tunes
Boys - I didn’t give a damn
‘Cause no-one sang with me.

And as the wheels span
I stuck to the plan -
A new start if I can.

So maybe I cursed fortune
On the way from where I’d been
Or maybe it cursed me

But as I chased the Moon that night
I journeyed to the end,
On a road to somewhere new.


Teach Me How to Dance (Northern Soul Lyric)

February 19th, 2014

This driving beat
Like a fire in me
In the midnight heat
Oh set me free

In my heart
and in my feet
Oh hear these pleas
Oh keep me sweet
Teach me how to dance
Teach me how to dance

This soulful groove
Running like a train
Makes me wanna move
Oh free these chains

In my heart
and in my feet
Oh hear these pleas
Oh keep me sweet
Teach me how to dance
Teach me how to dance

Stir my heart
and then repeat
There’s no retreat
From what’s in me
And when we meet
I’ll be complete
Yeah when you teach
I will be free

Please spin my heels
On a sliding floor
Move the wheels of me
As my soul soars

In my heart
and in my feet
Oh hear these pleas
Oh keep me sweet
Teach me how to dance
Teach me how to dance

In the midnight heat
Like a fire in me
Oh set me free
Oh teach me please

Teach me how to dance
Teach me how to dance
(repeat)


A Father Is A Feeling

January 16th, 2014

It doesn’t matter who you are,
This way you feel is never gone
It doesn’t matter what you do
Though sometimes wishing more.

It’s a long way to where you’ve been
So very close, but never done
Time stretched like old kite string
And the flight has just begun.

It doesn’t matter what you know
When memories rush in to slow
It doesn’t matter you don’t feel bold
and sometimes wishing more.

It’s wrong to see just what you’ve seen
To rest your eyes but not to dream
This shall be painted bright for all
As living lives begin.

So it doesn’t matter how you try,
The ways you wonder why
It really doesn’t matter what you do
Just keep on wishing, more.


Glinting Youth

June 26th, 2013

We saw the moon on the river
Stealing light down to the sand
The evening was a sliver
Of the things we understand.
We ran down to the riverside
As the dusky skies we thanked
We were young & open eyed
When the water glowed that night
Under stars like satellites
With hearts in orbit too
Raking moon as beacon bright
We said; let’s stay this way,
Leave the foolish to their fate tonight
Let’s move in swoon and shiver
Let’s look towards the river
Feel the water lap our heels
Stay in love with love, forever
Ankle deep but ocean wide,
Paddling in the eventide.
So many things to try.
So many ways,
we might.


Moonsong

June 26th, 2013

It was a green haloed moon
And nobody saw it but you
There were particles and mysteries
hanging in the air like necklace beads
And nobody saw this but you
What was seen was over soon
And nights like these are few
Some read articles or poetry
Some feel they must be reckless too
But you, you saw ions circling
Like bracelets on the wrist of night
Like halos round the moon
Only seen by you.


Turn This On Its Head.

May 9th, 2013


I
am not
a trampoline,
even though you
think I should be. You
can’t just bounce like gravity
and no-one sent you here saying;
‘let off steam on that thing!’
That thing, it is not me.
and I am not a
trampoline.

You
may bend your
knees when you land
them in me, but I am no fan of
such activities - romping endlessly,
you yelling ‘this, is such a rush
and this is such a thing!’ me,
knowing I’m not a thing,
just for you to crush.
Yes I am not a
trampoline.

But
then, I see.
You jump so joyfully.
You don’t assume to pounce
indefinitely, or leap until my body’s
crushed to dust. Just there, just laughing
‘I love this thing, I love this thing!’
This thing indeed I’ll now accept
that should and shall be me,
as I embrace what must.
I’ll always, be your
trampoline
.


Saturday Least

March 16th, 2013

Stapling kittens to a frock
when I should be out to rock,
and all the time I watch the clock
listening out for front door knock -
I think these things in case you mock
now I’m separated from the flock
and mostly, ready for the shock
of knowing it was me that turned,
it was me that closed the locks.


Think of Owls

February 12th, 2013

Three times the beauty
sweeping down to where you were,
breathless and unveiling,
never telling until now.
Silent like your thinking
the grey winds held,
no speaking, just seeking,
teasing you to act.
Quiet as an arrow
circling to surprise,
You were watching, you were waiting -
The sky was a canvas,
no less no more.


Inhale Away.

February 2nd, 2013

She breathes in books like dirt
disturbed by search for hidden things
within she greaves her hurt
as pages turn like paper wings
she chases thieves of memories
perturbed by her strange yearnings
for smell of earth to yell of birth
to call of death and all this brings -
’tis more than buried things
she seeks beneath
the dust.


The Blacksmith Leaving Imber

October 1st, 2012

The day the ministry closed the town
The Blacksmith laid his hammer down
And on his anvil tears spilled
As all the people gathered round
And when the Elders told the news
The world’s war was their excuse
Here was to be where soldiers drilled.

They’re never coming home.

They gave them twoscore seven days
To harvest memories and hay
To load it all on Bedford vans
On wagons and the local dray
Their lives worth more than what they weighed
As bobbies paced the street and waved
As men in suits kept things to plan

They’re never coming home.

One hundred and some fifty five
They said goodbye at the Church of Giles
Scatt’ring cross the Salisbury Plain
A peal of bells that bade farewell
And only then they really knew
This day they could not choose
It’s lives to leave or leaving pain

They’re never coming home

As the Blacksmith left in Forty-three
he turned to face his memories
He touched his heart with iron-stained hand
And bellowed at the military!
“I beat my chest and forge these tears
I look around and thank the years
I must now go to other lands -

I’m never coming home”

As years shall turn to winter days
And wiry bracken fades
And tumbled stones yield mystery
As ghosts emerge and play
The past it seems it never goes -
The first to leave the last to know,
Just thoughts of what shall always be

And this was always home.


Lessons of the Slam

March 29th, 2012

From the page to the mouth
to the rages of youth
to the range going south
and the train to the town
with the rain coming down
from the grains of a noun
to the catching of stars
to the hatching of fears
and the ashes of years
with the wind speaking strong
from the friends that I long
to the short from the long
to the end of this song
to the finish from the start
with a flourish to the heart
from the pretences of art
to the present, where I am
from the slaughter to the lamb
with these lessons
of the Slam.


This Hat

January 25th, 2012

Some people
don’t like
secondhand
but me I am,
a pre-loved man
this much I know
this hat I wear,
some people
they don’t understand
this thought I have
this pre-loved man
this hat I wear -
is who I am.


Wishes

January 20th, 2012

May your roads
run straight
& your wheels
stay true.

May you never
run late
with too much
to do.

May you step up
to the plate
from the back of the
queue.

May you shoulder
all the weight
that is bothering
you.

You are closer
than you know
to the fate
you always
knew.


In the Gallery

October 15th, 2011

We walked
around the art
today
and i forgot
to say
how proud
i have become
of you
we talked
about the lines
and chalk
debated
what was black
or not
and i forgot
to say
how proud
i have become
of you
we walked
around the art
today
remarked
about the role it plays
and i forgot to say
how very proud
i am
of you
… and then came time
to travel on.


Three Patterns of You

February 15th, 2011

Remember when you took delight
in everything you ever did
the slightest thought a dream,
like pebbles splashing
in the stream.

Remember when you loved the night,
and music reached to where you hid,
standing out but in the team -
each day another
theme.

Remember then, now years take flight
from dragons and the tasks they bid,
with pull of age’s scheme
come slowing ways,
it seems.


Early Valentine

February 11th, 2011

You
are mine
as we
entwine
you know
the signs
as you
stay mine
as we
align
as we
resign
oh love
of mine
as we
combine.


Alchemy of Leaves.

February 11th, 2011

Season long,
from shoots to shouts
to last parade then cut of spade
all mark season’s trade.
As light misleads, oh how I see
- means more to me than just
a change in nature’s song
these leaves - leave nothing gone,
sailing though their colours fade
hailing crowds with all they had or made
they urge me now to keep my trust,
when nothing’s right, and nothing’s wrong
when circles never double,
and where spirits never stray,
this alchemy of leaves it calls
and in my heart
it stays.


Nothing rhymes with Children

January 2nd, 2011

Every child is a word
waiting to express itself.


The End of the World

December 23rd, 2010

On the horizon we
stand
gripping the rails,
honour fading like
sand
folding the sails.
Some might say we
cling
to the land
hearing the wails,
few of us will
understand,
fearing before
end,
all and each
in one command.
Feeling the nails,
earth’s reprimand -
Gaia, tipping scales -
against the firebrands
moving veils
beyond our hands,
and she demands,
we must not
fail.


Internet Poem no.2

December 22nd, 2010

A simple joke about Peace
through the eye of a fish,
trawling the factoids
in the place where you sit on chairs
onto your eye biscuits it floats
a knot in the Mystery Ribbon
at the system’s edge -
order your personal
Cosmos.

Om Unit, Spamdroid

please stop. thankyou.


I Missed the Meteors

August 13th, 2010

Maybe my eyes,
they were not accustomed,
not tuned to the night into which they stared.
I watched but only glimpsed the imaginary sparkles,
the nothing definites - the blinks of stars through veils
tiny lost satellites unfurling their wings
like moths breathing the glow.
Did I see this? Or was it just rushing blood,
rushing by? It matters not, I will never know.
The night felt fine and that,
was good enough.


Do you use the internet or is it using you?

July 28th, 2010

If history
repeats itself,
we might be willing underlings
perhaps, we’re already oiling the gears
again, keeping things simple inside
helping the mystery machines rise
and fate says serve their greasy whims
as metal hearts reside
in a forest of sublime possibility
new beasts hide in industry
and pistons
turn again.
New society?
Sink or swim we might think -
Art and Science were never allies,
more like brothers breathing rust
spitting out the things
they used to trust.
Imagine chiaroscuro
turned to dusk
and then a painter,
counting dust -
gasping for air or gasping in awe,
the choice was never really ours,
we consume, we are consumed
for consummation’s sake.
So on, creeps change
like an iron furnace glow,
seeping into the night
and on to day - no collisions here and now,
the change, is all too slow.
If history does indeed repeat itself
this is something we should know.
Do not assume that this,
was always thus.


Too Good to Burn

July 5th, 2010

Below the moon at Uffington
between the folds of chalkhill gown,
we sit beneath the White Horse stars,
see flames and sing this song.

O’ Stars and embers dance your crown
as woodsmoke turns the hour’s dust,
and as we do these things we must,
this night it shall be ours

Above, see nervous lanterns rise
like strange birds from another time,
we wait below this all tonight,
and contemplate the flow.

Stars and embers dance your crown
as woodsmoke turns the hour’s dust,
and as we do these things we must,
we know, this night is ours.

Below the moon at Uffington
we sing beneath your ancient night
we contemplate the eventide
and tell of White Horse downs.

So stars and embers raise your crown,
as woodsmoke turns, the hours must -
we hold our simple truth to trust,
the night indeed is ours to own.

Now sit, and sing with us.

Listen to Tim Graham’s beautiful interpretation of this poem >>>


It Speaks For Itself

May 5th, 2010

Either
it does,
or it doesn’t
What it says,
goes without question.
What it does -
now takes possession.
What it says, what it wants
what it knows,
this is all
it does.


From Gears to Stars

April 8th, 2010

Mice and men and lunatics
trying hard to do their thing
best intents within their skin
like clocks that click and clack
and loudly voiced they trickle back
like once upon a time ago
they must attend the helm,
so proudly rushed they go
their choices never realised
selling time to you and I -
enclosed and overwound,
but coiled and set to spin
towards, the sky.


Broken Umbrella

March 29th, 2010

What use am I?
against the flood,
against the very rise
of blood
what use am I?
against the sludge,
against these tides
that judge
what use am I?
This question,
shall be use
enough.


Beacon.

March 16th, 2010

Oh you,
are the dance
I never learn
the chance
I always yearn.
You are, the grace
I never earn,
the trance
to which I turn,
and now, a starry, glowing urn
and I am flame within,
awaiting your
return.


The one I see

March 5th, 2010

It’s hard to introduce myself,
start a conversation about simple things,
learn the ways we can join hearts,
touch minds, swap smiles, be warm with each other.
All I want, is to roam those miles of your eyes,
be a good soul finding grace in your gaze,
reel in the sparks dancing between glances,
draw in the gravity of who we might be.
But how, how will you even notice me?
Mouthing these, these tiny, silly words
too soon, too much, too late, no doubt -
and blood is rushing my intentions,
the world is spinning, twisting, whirling
and everything is blurring
into one.

You are that one.


There is something about the way of things.

March 4th, 2010

Yes
you could deny
these slipping nights
but at your peril.
Counting stars does not
bring the sky any closer
and there is no meaning
in the inevitable,
You cannot slow this down.
Let it all go. Accept the flow.
Yes, you may be thinking about
the edge of the universe.
the end of knowing
but even there,
something
happens
next.


Echo

February 27th, 2010

Surely you know
you can’t talk
to a stone
unless of course
you are the wind
then nothing changes
anything
unless you ask it to
confess its cause,
connect itself
to all you seek
so near the end
where whispers blow
upon the source
of contours slow
and what it is
you’re looking for.
Surely you know
you can’t talk
to a stone,
unless of course,
you are the wind,
then on you’ll wend
like hushes flown
like spirits thrown
like feelings shown
now on you go,
my friend.


Silence.

February 8th, 2010

A single thought is not enough,
but thoughts together multiply.
I’m sorry that we forget this sometimes.
Love, is deeper than longing.


Go with it.

January 29th, 2010

These are not waters to try to swim in,
these are waters to learn to swim in
These waters bring an undertow,
and push and flow we learn to know.

Again, begin.


Wait for dolphins

November 19th, 2009

Folding
like mountains
more than stone
jumping sunset
silvered Firth
chasing Oyster skies
to edge of Loch
and on to Glen
as shadows fade
I follow
them.


But that was last night.

October 8th, 2009

Last night
there was a poem
in my head
curled and laid,
thinking about the day
rolling around my bed
“Enough of rhyme”
this poem said;
think new ways
choose new words to say.
Awesome and tiresome -
closer than you think
the poem said
and last night
that omen
turning in my heart,
felt like
prey catching pray,
all bowed beneath
an old moon calling.
“Come now threads of sleep -
for I am caught”
the fleeing poem said.


The Observer Effect

October 8th, 2009

The mind
can’t be fully aware
until it thinks about awareness
but what it learns in thinking this
alters the way it perceives itself.
Therefore, we must conclude.
It is foolish to think
The mind can ever be
fully aware.


Thank You

September 16th, 2009

We forget
the little tokens,
the tiny nuances
the real interactions
a nod, a wave, a smile.
Here, mere transaction -
click, clack and don’t come back.
It’s all pretend but you, you are real
and I thank you stranger
for taking this time
and here, now
I feel real
too.


Make it Bigger.

July 8th, 2009

“Edit out the Swans!”
low-moans the bass clarinet
too loud to move
the slider.

And down she went.

Edited.

“Too white,
I want more mood-
we have products to promote
without distraction,
edit out those Swans”

You knew didn’t you?
You made a bargain
back then.

And on she went,
like a fox chasing the coop
like bones crunching bone

“Pull down that moon
it spoils the view -
crop it and crop it,
cut it and paste it,
we must sell soon,
re-edit those Swans”

Edited.

Her overbearing pounce,
trampling motives -
scattered lost in flight,
the antonyms of you.
Hear this now;

“Let tweezers fall
forget your teaser’s call
do not regret this all.”

And tiny eyes mean tiny minds,
and tiny minds mean tiny lives,
and you don’t have to edit,
anymore.


Pants on Fire

July 5th, 2009

He started life as a liar
pretending to know
pretending to be -
it was a game
and it was fun.
It was a shock
when he learned
people believed him,
and so, he began
to believe himself.

That was then.


Left for Dread

July 3rd, 2009

Stabbed in the head and left for dead
the local paper said - that’s what I read.
A man with no bed, on and on he bled
and I am led to fear the roads I tread.

Kicked in the gut and punch-drunk cut
no reason but - just lowlife in a rut,
unkind neighbours, doors tight shut
all forgetting brutish strut.

Carved in the street and left for meat,
Where cold rats meet with no retreat.
Now just stains on cold concrete,
where fear remains, beneath my feet.

He, was sliced through his head,
cleft and torn like newsprint fled.
DID YOU HEAR what I just said?
This man without a bed, on and on, he bled.

And I am left to dread
these roads we tread.


He’s meeting Kurzweil

June 10th, 2009

Frankly I’m impressed
a book deal and induction
new-age world order
inviting him to intersect
with a Hendrix in the wirehex
and frankly I’m impressed.
No, really I’m impressed
the journeys on - inside and out
with difference from the rest
with leaving hive behind
with magic in his step
and all these things
I never guessed
and frankly, yes I am,
impressed.


Too many poets

May 22nd, 2009

Scribbling like inky flies
fallen onto barren sand
they are dribbling their grey ice now
draining to souls, pouring thoughts
from the dumb to the numb
and with blessings of the wise
their black milk flows
from the nipples of fools
to mouth-gasping shoals
they’re stealing succour of verse,
curdling the subtleties of words
shitting out their facile turds
and I watch them, circling like flies
turning truths to vacant lies.
It’s hard for me to recognise -
which one of them am I?


Acorn Heart

April 23rd, 2009

Tired
but not bent -
that’s me.
I don’t want to be old
but I want to be wise,
Don’t care.
I’m creaking
like slow oak
my sap goes sallow
on its way.
Even now,
I’m speaking
with drying croak
but unbowed
still not bust -
at least I’m growing,
and thus,
I’m sneaking
into night
and slow moon rush
over ground and into loam
must follow down,
to hushed earth
to shallow breaths
to closing eventide.
I’ll wander on
with feet of clay,
but part of me,
I’ll leave today.


Once I held a Cowbell

April 16th, 2009

I like this living room you speak of
it reminds me of my own hippy upbringing.
Sundays, when the musicians came by
experimentation was on a grand scale.
and once, there was even a famous Dutchman
jamming with my dad grinning like a valley.
I was the young one who knew all the names -
cited influence of Harvest and Charisma artistes,
old heads seemed cool with the youngly wise.
That’s how it felt back then, in his music room
trying to stay in tune with Beardsley wallpaper
waiting by the paintings for his blue-smoke jazz.
I snuck the breath of adulthood before my time,
and now I send it back.


Limit Your Technology.

April 6th, 2009

I predict
data vultures
circling
the bones of Nefertari,
preening
their wings
cleaning the digital grease
of things
I predict,
and though she danced
she now is bowed
like me
tension tight
tonight
I predict
a dimmed culture
all zero and one
averaged
drones of Neotime
stealing the memes
casting their net
sealing the seams
I predict
yet stay damned
and proud,
like a Cuneiform dynasty
teasing stones
magnetized and bright
this night
I predict
the signals lost,
the circuits bent
in wired fog
the snakes are calling
from carrion crave
and in their ways,
and in all they say.
I now rebel.


Old Circle

March 29th, 2009

I was reminded to smile more
embrace embraces beyond doubt,
let natural ways be natural ways,
let chance be left to chance.
I was reminded to forget -
the where and when,
the who I may become.
You showed me, we are stones
weathering the way
holding on to the hill,
but rolling over time and ills
towards this place. together now
without pride nor answer
I am again reminded to smile,
once more.


twice

March 18th, 2009

blink blink
can’t write
tonight
and most nights
come to that.
and come to this;
this space
think think!
used up by things
blink blink
and it’s
gone.


Rubenesque

February 5th, 2009

Legs
like balistrades
smiles
to smash the barricades
bottle open lips
swaying like a parade.
on will and want hips
she strides
with her pendulum eyes
wide as miles
high as
cinders in the fire
throwing kisses
down the wire,
and I for one,
will never
tire.


Laughed so hard I puked

February 2nd, 2009

Brother,
I’m so proud of you.
It was the stuff of legend
all them hearts stopping at once
so funny
and humbling too.
I saw you so,
natural.
holding court
with those strangers,
telling THAT joke.
Oh brother,
you fell
onto the payphone
and I snorted my beer.


The internet is broken

February 2nd, 2009

You won’t remember me.

I was the one who knew
half your symmetry -
clutching emptiness
in all souls - felt like
connectivity
beyond old biologies.

You won’t thank me.

I took part of you,
made it part of me
rolled up your stories
your worlds of possibility
only later I found
they were all imaginary

I won’t regret.

I became something
we were not before -
remember? Bright embers
blown like pollen,
speckles in the galaxy,
dust in the galleries.

I won’t forget

You were the thing,
you started me
before tired eyes
before wary memories,
and now you remind me.
We were once electricty.


I’m living in the Now

January 19th, 2009

My shoes
feel good today
not like yesterday
softer more natural,
more me.

Yesterday,
my toes felt
pinched,
like they didn’t belong
truth had to be.

Got this feeling now.
I’m living, in the now -
without sum towards
one, and other suns
and maybe some.

Today I love
my shoes -
these are ones
I want to
keep!


Senses wait

December 18th, 2008

I am the sigh

only lovers hear

listen

I am layers

stretched between indigo

see

I am scent

on powder wind

breathe

I am questions

longing, waiting -

answer

me.


Bad Moon Day

December 3rd, 2008

Heads up
it’s a bad moon day
I woke up late
teeth like slate
must be all
the stress I ate
I need to choose
another fate
the bell was wrong
the clock was wrung
to zombie state
my crawling heart
and every beat
a guess
too late
and now I want
another gate,
heads up
six-thirty’s eight
but truths won’t wait
I must now join
their course debate -
head’s up,
I overslept,
I’m late,
and it’s
a bad moon
day.


Winter Comes

November 1st, 2008

Below the ripple sway
polished dark like night
above, a silver stream
time lapsed rushing by
smooth, as melting ice
hello says the curling sky
pressed like frosted bacolite
in love? the elders dream
through moonlust eyes
and truth like sifted rice
so low, now winter days
relished not as if by right
a shove sleeved scream
rhyme hatched and rushing by
and proud as wish-tree ties
and still in awe of morning rise
am I.


You are where you are.

October 19th, 2008

Only on the edges of the edge
do you truly feel alive.
so said the brutish soul
grubbing through the mud and oil
spitting blood and drowning
low in anger flood.
sneering at the lonely stride
the boneless trudge
the spineless push
towards the vacant ledge
steps like aimless grudges bent
before a shameless judge
the honey thieves are out of breath,
and chicken sad with thoughts of death.
one push on and they’re all gone,
one turn back and everyone
survives.


Entwined

October 4th, 2008

It was a wise machine
that wound this ball of string
as tight as season rings
somewhere it started
and somewhere it ended
the whirl of things not right
nor wrong - just reasoning
wandering round and circling
like thrum of strands within threads
like clustered shards in filaments.
a universe of time
unquenchable, intense
untwisting, complex intent.
I understand.
We are entwined
beneath this endless, turning
firmament.


Deep Breaths

August 28th, 2008

There’s a big thing I have to do
Can’t say too much but it’s time,
time to be a grown-up for awhile
if I hold my breath for long enough
everything might just be O.K
Tomorrow could be different
the toys of life could be in their trays
and I might learn about responsibility -
practice process before ways.
It’s very introspective of me isn’t it?
Thinking, thinking this might interest you
expecting you to understand this too
but I wanted you to know
there’s a big thing I have to do.


comfort, courage, confidence

August 18th, 2008

This is for you.
I know you can do it
stop worring about the loose stuff
whirling around the baggage
hold of your head
forget, forget
for - get!
yes, they’re all so … comfortable
yes, pretty their skin shines
but yes,
you can stop watching.
It’s all pretend -
just show me someone
who isn’t scared
deep down!
Take a photograph
frame the circumstance you see
print it in your mind and hold this
in your heart.
This is for you.


The King of Compromise

July 18th, 2008

You snuck
water into wine
yet I tasted finest
merlot lipstain red
sipped like wasted Sundays
spent in bed diluted thoughts
all with never minds
and mixed-up oughts
gone to hazy what the hells
drinking in the lazy things you said
I agree,
you took
the treble from the chimes
made us waste the wise
words and songs unsung
tuned down to lose the race
with touches plumed
from fluted noughts
old nature lost to dust
and yes it’s wrong to stifle bells
and hearing this your wragged scrape
I watched
you charm
the sleepers into life
unchaste and then declined
red dresses unto nervous creed
unzipped with patient haste
with sneaky lightning down
from blurring sky
teasing ground and then
goodbye.
For calm of dread
and dread of more than lies
for arms that lead me now
thus leading me to finalise
I must conclude, you are the King
of compromise.


Let’s get Metaphysical

July 3rd, 2008

Quit the quiddities let’s just do it
we know what’s in our minds
circling like John Donne fleas
synchronous in hemal feed
midnight hands - whispers apart
like ticks and tocks but of stars
and between is sweet as breath
oh yes, we must breathe!
like never before, but again -
draw angels down from fables
quieten words and all they mean
read the libraries of our eyes instead
sighing like kittens woken too soon
listening to a pulsing moon.
Let’s do it, do it now
let’s get metaphysical.


Bonsai Poem

June 25th, 2008

I’m
just a bonsai
I change -
watch me grow
not too much
~edit~
but enough
s t r e t c h i n g ,
change shape -
~paste~
patient nurture
tend and care.
~cut~
reader
keep me
from
~paste~
brutish
hands.
~snip~


Overheard Conversation #1

June 25th, 2008

Bring on the trumpets
that’s what I heard
so she said to us stood
in the corridor like edges
each like a continent.
without joining,
we paused
we saw her smile
that’s what we saw.
saw the smile moving
spreading like a silk parachute
stretched below moonlight.
without moving
we applaud.
I thank no-one
who thinks I am no-one
but maybe she means more to me
more than just this memory,
flying a kite just got harder -
and who wants fists of twine?
Without thinking
I’ll move on.


The Beehive

June 20th, 2008

It’s where
the weirdos go
so say the locals -
a hollow wedge on the hill
crammed with honey dancers -
James Joyce meeting Man Ray,
Kubrick speaking Rumi,
Australian vocal adventurers -
entertaining the freaks by proxy
and someone woke the weary out the back
smoking with the Russian
new modernists keep on with their delight
post-ale thinking around a book
or two or maybe more.
Time is inconvenient,
Ah. Nectar!


Ground

June 8th, 2008

I stand,
on what I said.
Why do you
dig it up?


My Luminous Horse.

April 29th, 2008

Skyward,
mouthing Swinetown wind -
raking moon above grey veins,
rattling battle pennant bones
above a once proud clan.
With airborne spires -
these aspirations
held aloft but not
in vain,
with spines of hope
knowing that they can.
This glowing beast
it will tell, it will show.
Display the mysteries
all should know.
Brothers and sisters!
Imagine a luminous horse
tethered high above the land
I call on you,
support this
plan.


Making a Decision.

April 18th, 2008

Apparently
you instinctively know
the right decision
ten minutes before
you make it.
What were you doing
ten minutes ago?
what was on your mind?
Was it inevitable
like a twisting bird
waiting to land?
You were
wondering weren’t you
and now,
you read poetry.
The answer,
is still
no.


The Wind Again.

March 28th, 2008

They wondered what the wind was for
scattering kernels on dark floors
raising arms as fronds in breeze
calling troops to last frost seeds
rising now above their needs
and yes, they wondered
had they sinned before?
Shattered deeds, and maybe less
but surely more than click of knees
cornered bent for scattered creed
locked and chasing seasons tease
and here now, hearing wind
feeling whispering, teasing,
wind.


The Hardest Skill (lyric)

March 14th, 2008

Life is just exhausting but we must live it still
Looking for redemption and a heart shaped pill
Battered like a butterfly jumping window sills
Life is just exhausting but we live it still.

Like cracks in walls we never quite can fill
And dread and dragging fear of hills
There’s a husk that won’t break open in the mill
Like cracks in walls we’ve built but never fill.

We’re told the choice is ours to make, we have free will
They say, there could be diamonds in the swill
and maybe we can indeed defeat our ills
the choice is ours apparently, we have free will.

Sometimes feelings are the hardest skill
Like hesitating rain before a suffocating chill
Like dark birds rolling in a wheel above a kill
Some feelings are the hardest skill.

Life is just exhausting and yes, we live it still
Like cracking walls we build but never quite fulfil
The choice is never made, despite free will
And feelings stay the hardest skill.l.


Mystery Poem

March 10th, 2008

Like
faces
in a tear
raggededy
rough
as they are
the racing car
lamps of your eyes
tracing, scratching lines
towards the inward
imaginings of selfish ‘I’
whirling in surprise
chasing those that hide
already cold as shudders
break, like new waves in ice
across the movers and the lies
doggedly tough
as they are
like trapped sky cries
wrapped in furrows and twine
there, sighting cloudline
blistered gaze
falling now
with bow and rise -
she’s a strange insect
flailing in a night jar
catching scent of moon
and twilight brings her soon -
tell your pacing heart
these pulses, these flashes
these little arcs of light
they, are just
the start.


Ostend 1981

February 12th, 2008

Have you seen
the proof displaced
lost belief just wandering
streets, touched past touching
quantums, atoms, molecules
streams as we are lead
in vapours wake
he goes
singing; grapevine broke my heart
let this troubleman be calm
no god, no good nor bad - just him
in mild european air
Real Magic is given to so few
watch closely and know
divine souls find their divinity
in everyone.


The Voice

February 12th, 2008

I’m the voice
and not the song
I am the voice
now listen on
I’m the choice
and not the wrong
don’t you linger
like a tantrum son
I’m the voice
and not the song
I call you
with mantra gong
I’m the wind
that batters on
no crown of singers
ambling gone
I’m the voice
and not the song
so now rejoice
I have this voice
and I am
strong.


Bereavement

February 1st, 2008

I looked
to the funeral trees
for they felt dead like me
naked in the winter breeze
I turned
to the funeral trees
though they seemed black to see
wretched lost and born of thieves
I walked
to touch the funeral trees
as they stood in sombre creed
with a bond to spite the freeze
I fell to lay
with the funeral trees
and I watched them change
and I saw them grow
then soon I slept -
for gentle were
their pleas.
I dreamed
this song of funeral trees;
and time is now,
to unfurl
leaves.


White Flame Within.

November 11th, 2007

This white flame
burns
all bad things,
turns mourning into dust
moves morning into dusk
lingers long like lovers
after lust.
Between
head and heart
ancient in your breast
there is a fire -
white glow burning
powder-ash
and tinder-piled,
sad things turning
cinder riled.
And white flame glows
and everything must go -
even things you’re scared to know
even thoughts you dare not show -
all within your hurting throw,
stack your ills and set alight
upon a white flame pyre.


Mystic Shift.

November 8th, 2007

And down came rusty stars
raising arms for all to shine
and low we dressed our frownfolk scars
chasing psalms and twisting twine (again)
with dreams but not quite ours
we carry ladders into night
pine the scent of cosmic wine
and then, we smoothly rise
like ancient sparks
like hilltop fire
and now, like cinder’s climb
inclined from pine to sky
we fly above
this awkward,
paradigm.


Where he goes.

October 16th, 2007

A man
needs a shed
takes the clutter
from his head
lays it down
on musty beds
tight against the edge
stained but only
partial red
a man
needs a shed
it takes away
his heart of lead
a place to dwell until
the world is pure
and nearly
bled
with creosote
and sodden pine
with scattered pins
on earthy weathered twine
all friends within
a secret place
to mine the mind
a space where men
have always fled
and every man
deserves
a shed.


Across.

October 14th, 2007

It’s blank
this space
we occupy
scratching the void
we stare
in articling watch
we see
cold folding air
we share
time spilled sun
we thank grace
more than that
we are here
and we are there
and we fail
and we can feel
we almost care
this is blankness
after oneness
after selflessness
after all.


Let me be your GPS

October 3rd, 2007

I know the way.
Every inch and mile
each turn and blur
each waypost sigh,
I know the way.
Yes, I do.
And I know you.
And we both know
it’s time to move.
Lay landscapes bare
unbutton roads -
each lane and every track
open to the journey
never coming back.
I know the way.
Turn left, turn right
straight over keeping on.
We’ll have miles
beneath our wheels,
like every breath
that ever was -
like every glancing move
like wilful lovers lost
but travelling on.
I know the way
I really do -
don’t stop, don’t stop
until I say.

Destination.


You are all, and you is one.

September 25th, 2007

Take me up and take me down
hold me still, spin me round
stretch me wide and fold me flat
roll me thin then mould me fat.

Lean me over, fly me high
make me laugh and make me cry
join the circuits, switch me on
you are all, and you is one.

Tell the tale then sing the song
push the bell, then drag along
make me crazy, make me sane
shake me lazy, wake me lain.

I am cleave and you are blade
I am just one in your parade
raise me higher than a stone
hold me tighter than the sun.

You are all, and you is one.


NightBurn.

September 19th, 2007

And the cells
in my eyes
are twitching
like flies
and the wells that
now rise
sink constructed
disguise
and the yells,
thin like ice
and the wails
and the lies
are you feeling like I?
can you bother
to try?
the cells
in your eyes
are twitching,
like flies.


Another Journey

September 13th, 2007

I am
on a train and
fate is faster than I
sleek and slipstream sharp
like an arrow, twisting
through all I know now -
inevitable, like a silk flag
stretched and spread for miles -
my talisman, at once my target
sewn by fortune’s pins
worn to show a difference
untorn by my indifference
raised up for my deliverance.
And I, am on a train
again.


M-space.

August 18th, 2007

Just one
more friend
and I am done
and I’ll have more
than you
a compound me
just recently
and heard to say
how good it is
to have such friends
and I’ll be done
and I’ll have more
and I’ll thank all.
Just one more friend,
and they’ll be done -
just like
the other
ones.


Reality fold.

August 7th, 2007

Disregard all
you have been told
UFOs do not exist.
The advanced beings studying us. All lies.
Time travel is the truth
Visitors from the future
maybe sinister, maybe sympathetic -
who knows, who cares apart from them …
but who, are ‘they’?
THEY are here
screwing with the now,
tinkering with the cogs,
bending the levers
backward.
We are led to believe
in conspiracies
but the real conspiracy is
what we’ve been led to believe.
What are they doing here ?
Did one of us do something
we shouldn’t have done?
Did one of us step
on the bug of what happens next?
Maybe you (yes you) -
thinking about changing the future
right now, maybe you changed it
as a consequence
just by thinking
the world needed fixing,
You created a new one
and the old one died.
And time is an open door.
Tell them!
There is no mystery;
Travel from the future,
don’t change the past
and you’ll be welcome
now.


Won’t.

July 23rd, 2007

You
want
to fight
and I will not bite
and you argue all tonight -
know now I just will not bite
life is more than fight
flight from torpid shite
and understand
I will not bite
and therefore,
will not
write.


We need a list.

July 23rd, 2007

All these
things to do
these things to count
these things to throw away
to say, to shout, to laugh,
to argue all about.
Can’t we just write
these dumb things down?
All these breaths
we’re letting out
without regard for things
we need to do.
Let’s stop this
in its tracks
stop this waste
of time that lacks
the moments
sparing dullness
all these worries
all these sighs
we should just agree -
write this stuff down
park these tired things
but keep them safe.
We need
a list.


In the key of Blue

June 22nd, 2007

This one’s in the key of blue.
Fellas, are you with me too?
These words are going out for you
and this one’s in the key of blue

No long-necked bottles left to stand
no diamonds resting in the sand
know me, no you - you’ll understand
I’ve got the mic and a kick-ass band.

And this one’s in the key of blue.
The other keys? I know too few
and this is for the moody crew
that’s why it’s in the key of blue.

No happy end to what I’ve planned
no smiling fools at my command
just me and threads in which to stand
and mic in hand and kick-ass band.

So this one’s in the key of blue
yeah this one’s in the key of blue
these words are going out for you
hear me wailing, lonesome, true.


I shall not fly again.

June 19th, 2007

I am afraid
my wings are useless
can’t you see them flapping?
I am aimless.
For all your honeydew
I am toothless too,
maybe … maybe because
I carried on so shamelessly.
But nobody told me
I would become
quite so ruthless -
with tongue to stamen greed
gnawing, so furiously.
Dark pollen clings tight
to a truthless heart,
like blackfaced moths
clinging onto midnight.
And I am earthbound now -
for all your curiousity.
Just watch me,
shuffling,
on.


Everything that was to come began.

June 14th, 2007

I remember Jack
he ruled my teenage years
and how I craved the highways
rolled out like three-week teletype
stretched to bedroom youth.

Next to Vonnegut he strode
offering a neckerchief
wailing on with Shearing
pulsing like a bright one
in Jazz firmament.

One minute I was a boy
then I learned of men
exploding like spiders
across stars.


Only now I feel.

June 4th, 2007

We
only feel love
when we hate
the hateful things
we feel love
when we forget
forgetful things
we love,
when we know
the helpless
fateful
things.


Remember everything.

June 3rd, 2007

At least he saw dolphins
spooling like silver thread
and they were blue reel wound
like circles of remembering.
This was the thing of things
amongst distractful days
dancing souls hailing him
each moment pouring into one
an urgent gasp of flickers
granting rush to saltslap roar
with curve and arc of open heart
there were dolphins and he saw them too
now diving down as spirits met the bow
then played upon the wake.


You remind me of how I used to be.

May 25th, 2007

You took the path
and I rode the motorway
in comfort got there quick
driven not by me
You shook the ashes
and I switched on the T.V
feet up late night squinter
sofa fugged and beat
You looked the way I did
and I looked back
creak neck creased
money almost spent
threadbare slack and given in
I once mistook you - I’m sorry.
Remind me how
I used to be.


Drained

May 17th, 2007

No-one knew what was
beneath the sediment
bubbling something
like old grief under skin
Moonraker’s booty perhaps
or rusting truths
now wrestling with reeds
like matadors in mud
like foot trodden fate
like drakes and strutting loons
all telling secrets too.
They fished and fiddle-shook
slid on pondweed toes and turned -
lost waterboatmen,
now scuttling home.


Again, contrived.

May 6th, 2007

I want to be an effect

but end up misaligned

I want your respect

but never quite arrive

it’s true

you get what you wish for

at least I think that’s what we’ll find

I just want to connect,

spark your atom mind.

feel kiss of whisperwind.

Oh god. Again,

I’ve ended up

contrived.


whitespace and voltrons

April 27th, 2007

Been a while
since we spoke
of such things
peeling eyes
around thoughts
we circle
in whitespace
and voltrons
sometimes
we are stellar
sometimes
we are sand
and then
we are
gone.


The drumming.

April 10th, 2007

This is where the rhythm is
this soft pushed bounce before the strokes
this snapping beat and accent too
inviting ghosts of crack and groove
and low my vantage swoops to dash.

This is air this rhythm fizz
this friction heat this hot-coal stoke
this movement out and pocket in
enticing hosts with smack and move
and slow my heated pulse is hatched.

This is prayer strong this rhythm is
this once hushed ounce now pounded smoke
this balanced rush to fevered few respect now due
these beats compounding rough with smooth
and now, a vintage Zildjian splash.


k.

April 2nd, 2007

Now
you know
I know you know.
You know
I know
you know I know.
I know you
now.


All these things we dreamed

April 2nd, 2007

We swam out and said come on in.
and so they did but where are we?
Still swimming, still dreaming, still?
The trouble I believe is ours not theirs
and now we must admit we do not know -
what shall we do? What happens next?
Let us follow on awhile and see.


Look at me I’m flying

March 30th, 2007

Just for a moment I was a bird
and you were tiny beneath my wings
for a moment swooping circles high
with you below with wait for me to sing
for a moment I was untethered
and you stared at broken strings
for a moment I swear I soared
over reaches of folk and kings
for a moment, just a moment
riding the joy of winds
you warned I might forget
such things.


Apperture

March 29th, 2007

We have these evenings here
sometimes crystalline blue
sometimes like silver
sometimes like blonde
in pepper light
and we scurry
and we scamper
until it feels
there is less
to heave.
Sometimes
these evenings -
sometimes, filmset bright
halogen staged for shadows’ reach
pure lit fingers swooping -
down from old moon sighs.
Sometimes this air resonates,
sometimes, like finest sinewave glass
shaking over sheep-bed green
these evenings hear the fears
sometimes they will appear
to anyone who waits
for evenings here.


Wiltsong.

March 12th, 2007

Go where white horses lay
on green blanket down
hear young men tell tales
of old Marlborough town.

Run where country girls stay
we’re resting our heels
near riverbank’s bend
with spin in our reels.

Skip past bullrush and sway
where hill winds come
alive to our ways
in fields we roam,

And all, towards our home.


little big.

March 8th, 2007

what’s the difference
between a rock and a stone
thought the ant
pushing against purposes
like a dot - marking sentences
ordering the knots
like a fading spot satelite yacht
no brighter than a spore in the rot
between floors
between the walls
somewhere lies repentance
the ant thought -
a lot.


It’s a Nervous Habit.

March 6th, 2007

Sort of maybe
chewing over things
crooked English teeth
tease chipped-tip flesh
I can’t resist
I bite the mouth
that feeds.
It comforts me -
peeling tender skin,
the kind within, beneath.
There is no rush
so I must desist
to bite this mouth
that feeds.


I, Watcher.

March 5th, 2007

I watched you
just like you said
watched every twitch
every gesture
every shake
and yes - I could see -
see what you were thinking,
wanting, expecting
you were dipping your smile
down and to the left again
your singing mouth
briefly stilling;
a nod, a tilt,
a subtle slant
and I thought I knew.
O.K - I’ll admit
I looked away -
lost my track
but only then
I felt.
You,
watching
me.


Looking Up.

February 20th, 2007

This is a slippery slope
no roots or shoots to grope
no emergency rope and on
the face of it there is so little hope
that’s what I see
through this narrow periscope
now, I’ll shut my stupid trap
and cope.


We need some air

February 16th, 2007

this stuff we’ve been breathing in
same old, same old back and forth
tired molecules dragging feet
enough! - we’ve been here before
don’t suck and take this all for granted
I think we’ve forgotton the difference
between a scent and a stink
this huff our chests now heave -
moans of mild irritation or worse
so stale is our brightness of intent
and gone the whistle of being alive
even vibrations we don’t feel
look - it’s as clear as day outside
there’s a million miles of wind
and the sky has invited us
why not run the hill and turn
blow murmerstone and undertow
we should be rolling like rounded chalk
down hillforts and lazy tracks
where whispers never still
letting cracking groans and pleas
be rough vapors blasted free
and to nature’s tether, heaving in
gently calling sighs to laughing breeze
together sharing what we all share
no room for dried up truths
we now must leave -
we need more air.


It’s just a word.

February 14th, 2007

It’s just a word,
that’s all it is.
Not so very different
to the others.
In fact, there are
171,476 choices
we could also
make.
Just another word
amongst the multitude,
that’s all it is -
just a word
and we’re struggling now
holding tweezers
over dirt.
It’s just a
word,
It’s just a word.
It’s just a stupid
word.


Nailed it.

February 7th, 2007

Here come
the Hammermen
a-bang a-bang a-boom
with metal wails
and woodsmoke clan
here they come
working thru midnite again
pulsing sons
in echoplex halls -
all alleycat wails
with the sense of shadows
beckoning lotharios
with purple moan
of mannish boys.
Oh hear them call
publicans of England!
Hear now these
Hammermen;
a-bang a-bang
a-boom.


When you read me.

February 5th, 2007

i am full
swagger swelling
bloated even
and i am vain
and i am pumped
balloon edged modesty
moon-faced travesty
spoon ace
mastery
think
the fullest thing
a womb maybe
dam water lees
and log jam
milk shake
wheeze
think now
a dust world bus
stretched like a saddlebag
but not like us
like uterine kin
fit to burst
like sunset
rust
and now
the highways
midnight bound
and i am full.
it’s pictures
in your mind
i see
just think
when you read
me.


Not Political

February 1st, 2007

Words
are warriors
let them ride
over mountain’s teeth
let them climb
let them leap
like ghosts over the dunes
over sands and traditions
raised against ignorants
peeling skin of sycophants
mouth breathing falsehoods
with dead machines
only numbers describe
but never heal.
Words are warriors
let them run
between fallen honours
let them charge
let them roar
loud amidst the halfwits
with their door sniggering
doomed meat stares
never seeing stars.
Let them loose
among the dumb and damned
let them out
let them free -
speak to the idiots
line dancing in blood.
Shred ropes of shock and awe
before ask and lust for more.
Dead must be hypocrasy
and words must fight.
Now stop the war.


This is how it feels.

January 22nd, 2007

It feels like
you are nudging me,
pushing subtly
on a hotpan pepper
not quite cooked
and always,
I am terracotta red
swirling into
white.
It feels like,
you are touching me,
cells whirling -
twisting vapors again
like old-hooked pike
and always,
I am led
though kissing nil
but night.
It feels like,
you are tempting me,
feintly waiting
like un-lined paper
parchment smooth
but always,
I am ink and splatter
squirming into
spite.


Gargoyles.

January 17th, 2007

He used to be an artist,
wanted to make gargoyles -
fashion them in modern ways.
Follow a plastic arts take
on the stone carver’s tradition.
He sought new monsters of narrative
like the snarling beasts of his time;
Ditko grins, sci-fi and circus freaks,
with Picasso’s garish push and pull.
He wanted positive repulsion
He reasoned we should all update
our ancients and their fears,
into a new, more relevant folksonomy.
His tutors questioned the concept,
didn’t get this new idea of his,
wanted to know why he was
being so post-modern.
He carried on.
Chalk walls became Photostats,
papers became scribbled and screwed,
iconography became stolen.
He built a temple to the strange
watched his reputation as an odd one grow.
Did not deny the darkness of his intent,
posessed, but ready.
His barbarians were simply made;
Two pinched-clay spitjoined bowls,
with brows and crooked nose bones,
puffy cheeks, lips and pointed chins
and ears, and crinkled skin.
Oh, and eyes like nemesis owls,
tenderly manipulated.
(just an afterthought).
You are no doubt aware.
“Clay is a fine-grained aggregate
of hydrous silicate particles”.
Difficult to train for most.
But this day, him and clay talked.
A conversation about creation and death,
about tenderness and fire,
about matching energies.
Him and clay reached an understanding.
He, had spoken of humanity’s climb
from the void, and the clay told how
to return to the underworld.
With stroke and roll and squeeze then,
the rebel earth accepted him
and something new, something
never real, never before.
What pleasure that day,
his strange day of ogres.
Who was the demon? Himself?
Or every dastard
now under his command?
Spitefully lain on an old wooden tray,
calling shock unto their saggy eyes
screeching woes to the worried.
So quickly he painted them -
coloured slips the tone and hue
like comic book inkings.
Colours shouldn’t show
until kiln-fired.
But he saw - he saw! he knew!
And he was ecstatic.
Oh how marvelous this had been -
just, perfect - like dreams made real
and grinning back at him.
It seemed, his mastery was complete,
but … something still read wrong.
The threads of this success,
torn by these ugly children of his,
but not monstrous anymore.
He liked them and it showed.
Too clever, too nice,
too crafted.
So he made a decision.
“Kill your babies” a writer said.
Well his, were fifteen dead puppies
raining down and squishing onto tarmac
That’s how they looked
when he threw them in the air -
and he watched them collapse
like giant lumps of splattering puke.
And he heard them too
wailing, wheezing - whistling out
through splits and fearful holes.
Gnarled and twisted, wrecked,
distorted, ruined.
But then he saw the beautiful. Yes!
Not his beauty, but a bludgeoned beauty,
grotesque beauty - rare and barely recognisable beauty.
Scary beauty, breath stealing beauty.
Gargoyle beauty, incredible -
utterly mesmerizing,
helpless beauty.

He could have been an artist.


May I borrow this?

January 12th, 2007

Maybe
I’m mistaken
but I imagine kisses
like butterfly punches
and temples shaped
for alter songs.
This sigh you offer -
discreet and glancing.
A shape you’ve burned,
an arc to be admired.
Maybe, just maybe
I am the one
who does not
steal.


You and I are rain

January 8th, 2007

Seeds
need rain
like you and I
disolving soil and
seeping down to earth
once and through again
we go like icey broth
when winter chimes
in want of some reprise
we wake, and nourish all
feel each kernel, every husk
writhe and double
push the clay and loam
grasp the psalm of storms
and later, balm of stars
at dusk.
We are rain soaked
you and I
and into the footings we fall
ringing the brittle song
that calms and tells of time
renewed, like seeds
and rain
like you,
and I.


Another Year

January 1st, 2007

Happy new year!
Said the new
But what of the old
Thought I.
Isn’t it great?
We’re never late
And so felt the few
But nought
felt I.


Gelderland

December 21st, 2006

Oh Gelderland,
In night I wait for you,
Long before the slay
Of slate-smudged days.
Are you real or just a dream?
Oh Gelderland,
Lying down with evening’s hearth
Watching flame and twisting heart,
Hearing coals cracked wide
Against my art.
Tell me again
The things I know -
Before my closing eyes forget,
Before my loping last regrets,
Oh Gelderland.
Let your old winds blow,
Like soul of souls on wintered air
Sent from you, oh Gelderland -
Come soon your mystery,
Come soon.


I killed Santa

December 11th, 2006

I killed Santa
and then I broke
your heart.
I couldn’t lie.
I thought you knew.
This was the day
he died.
I told you,
he was a dream
to gently wake -
I whispered this
was part
of growing
up.
Yet still
the tears rolled
and you sobbed
and you cried again,
not foolish at all -
forever like,
a child.


Rodeo Heart

December 8th, 2006

Wisened smirks in tan and spur
on drifting plains where gauchos ride
with measured words of old-world burr
in parchment air the cow-punch calls
to stars and satellites .
Weather shirks and tin men blur,
on nowhere trains in race to find
the long gone herd of ways that were,
descent no more than new-born’s fall
on drifting plains the gauchos ride.
Please, don’t switch your T.V on
tonight.


Untouchable.

December 1st, 2006

I’ve seen her too.
Shiny, glassy even.
Midnight holding silver
Whistle to her lips
And the air abounds
With auspices of birds
Glowing like atom’s breath -
Imagined but alive.


Must not feel.

November 24th, 2006

You don’t
want to feel
like a flea
on the tail
of a dog.
You don’t,
but that’s
how it
is.

You know not
what to feel -
fight or flee,
watch or fall -
through graspless fog
of you know not.
This is just
how it
is.

You mustn’t fear
now tumbling you -
now scared, of all
the shocks.
You mustn’t feel
this way you feel.
This is the way -
it is.


Our Wanderer Returns.

November 24th, 2006

Back from your adventure.
There you are. Stretching on the sofa.
Did the rain bother you?
We wondered if you’d sheltered -
you’d never seen such weather.
And we worried and we hoped,
and we tried not to wonder.
Had you ventured very far?
“I’m hearing wails”
(said our neighbour)
“… can you hear them too?”
Oh, how we ran to put on shoes,
hoping it would be
you.


Escape

November 13th, 2006

Don’t stitch the sail
if stitching torn-past shreds.
Thus spoke blunt patched cloth,
all to worrymen and woe.
No stitch the sail!
Wish now for wonder wind!
This spoke parchment wings
curled and needing quiet thread.
Don’t speak, don’t speak at all
is what the needle
said.


How are you?

November 6th, 2006

I’m
imagining
you again
November
bound and
cursing
fog.
Fumbling -
two hundred and six
slacking bones
lazy TV eyed
& morning blurred.
Sleepwalking
onto winter.
Am I right?
It’s cold,
you know.


Make it Stop

October 20th, 2006

Doubt

rains down

like hunger creed

false smiling me.

White noise

tired eyes -

mumble handed

wails

all minded in ignorance.

Dread and burning sand.

Last breed’s last cry,

second best last try.

Don’t let it last.

Make it,

Stop.


Skin Deeper

October 11th, 2006

Shiny apples tease
With scent of promises
With Summer dusted skin
With polished tone
They sing to me
Perfect veined in selfish sun
and nourished by the want
Of one.

Shiny apples call
Intent on Autumn fall
Intent on dusky hands
Intent on cherished clasp
They come to me -
So rarely caught in hold
and needful grasp.

Shiny apples spoil -
How fate turns them all
How soon they heed
How truth can be
They lie to me
To catch my eye
To hold my mind
No time
to wonder
why.


The Strength is Mine

October 7th, 2006

By ushered dawn
I’ll whisper long,
By winds since gone
I’ll sigh.

By fountains bold
I’ll summon hold,
By ancient song
I’ll try.

By stars above
I’ll call on love,
By mountains tall
I’ll cry;

By limbs of oak,
By none things spoke,
By thread of Nature’s cloak,
I now invoke.

Much more,
Than I.


The Little Fish

October 2nd, 2006

Once,
I had a thought.
It was small
It was vulnerable
And it was very brave.
Like a tiny fish
Without a shoal
Lost and circling,
And puffing-up
Two times -
maybe four.
Couraged gainst
The sharpened teeth
By some pretence
This little fish,
This little thought
Swam on.


I Keep Forgetting

October 2nd, 2006

To be calmer
To try to understand
To dwell and
Know other minds.
To remember all things
No matter how small
To catch the shapes
In blurring wheels
I cannot see.
To try to be
Wise,
Is want to be -
Part of else
Apart from
Me.


And as the rain came down

September 29th, 2006

I sat
and felt
the changes
come
the ages
rinsing
over
me
I sat
and saw
exchange
of sun
for rages
rushing
up to
see
I sat
and cried
and rain came down
how strange
for one
with pages
still to
see.


Endless

September 26th, 2006

And on we go
To end of shows
Where no applause
Cuts pause
In words
Like nervous birds
Now resting here.


Rising

September 21st, 2006

Bring ash of dawn
Where honour has no moon
As Lunar marks my heart
Of rising dust and crack’d lawns.
All sing in cached yawns
All shake the greying swans
On hiving rust and stack’d pawns,
I stare on days gone far
Too soon.


Brick by Stone

September 14th, 2006

It’s always been
about the music
that’s what built
the towers.
And when the music
starts the walls
will shake.


Saying Hello

February 26th, 2006

I am stonepoem, once known for writing internet poetry at stumbleupon. 365 poems written between 2004 and 2005, and then, no more*. This started as an experiment about documenting an existance in poetry and sharing verse with other poetry blogs and writers who had become online friends - but it has became so much more.

I hope you enjoy what I have written for you.

stone.

* that’s a lie now, because I’ve started writing again…

S T A R T   H E R E > > >


R I P

November 6th, 2005

Have you heard?
The poet is dead.
Silenced in descent
Of crouching night.
Forgotten now
By mortal winds
And things that speak
To breathless souls
Or hearts entwined,
Out amongst
The nebulae.
But don’t be sad
For errant voice,
No longer felt
And whisper stilled.
Thoughts, are such
Temporary things.
When you hear
This poet is dead -
Carve some words,
In stone.


The Words Don’t Work.

October 27th, 2005

Words
are a waste of time -
they’ve certainly occupied
too much of mine.
Shouting like pushy folk in line
from A to Z, demanding attention
in fray with clatterered heels
and sullied cries,
bold suggestions -
like Jazz sax strayed
too far from melody.
But it’s not I don’t enjoy
their crowded company.
No, far from it, I do -
I truly do and always will.
Where would I be
without our dialogue?
And beauty, and wonder
and other joys?
It’s just … I begrudge
the mechanics of these things -
these *words*.
They just can’t resist
trying to sneak their influence
beyond what I really want to say.
Words come with baggage you see.
What I think, what I write,
and what I speak -
it all gets ransomed by
dragging needs to express
and be understood,
to offer degrees of meaning.
In reality though,
not, the real me.


Geology.

October 27th, 2005

It was
always you.
Blue quartz seamed,
and running through
this solid stone of I.
And so behest was knock’d fate
with moon-tugged nights
and stullied appetite for winds
that never blew.
Time-tumbled,
on the greystone shore,
laid down the sighing churn -
locked me in with eon’s hold
of elemental bores.
And so I yearned,
and so I yielded.
And so I found.
And then I knew.
It was always,
you.


Father.

October 19th, 2005

Every day I kick myself.
Is this laughter really mine?
Loud like bad played notes
on a cheap plastic horn.
But I am so proud.

And the stories they tell,
and the pictures they show -
ah, such wonder!

How did this occur?
There is no weariness now.
Suddenly I am, Superman -
jumping and giggling into life,
clamouring too with love.


Those Who Wait .

October 17th, 2005

Stilled am I in lull of night
No ocean’s move save salted spite
And where go I in loose-rigged winds?
No bounding heave, no push and cleave,
No rising line or white-mane minds.
All quietened like the muted damned,
Horizon-fixed with tar glued stares
Through eyes that blaspheme stars,
And with curses for a speechless sea
And the stolen shore yet far way.
I lie silent, waiting and becalmed.
Just these thoughts for company.
Oh take me home to those,
that wait for me.


Succour Punch.

October 11th, 2005

When
you were born
I didn’t cry.
I was struck dumb -
could not describe
the feelings felt
for you.
Immediate,
like electricity
running through
my restless back
and flooding in
my empty head,
my vacuum heart.
Something,
switching on
deep inside
and bewitching
with delight,
and sparks
of life -
lightening
my soul.
But not,
like raptured
passion’s flame
or glowing ember’s
warm embrace,
nor kinship
of years
or kindly smiles
from journeys
shared.
No,
this feeling …
It was Instant.
It was Persistent.
It was Beautiful.
And I’ll never forget,
and I cannot escape,
and still cannot describe
beyond mere love
and loving
you.


Wishes.

October 10th, 2005

May whatever you do, be better than what you’ve done,
Reclaimed from hard-drudged hours, like distilled time.
Where dreams are hoist with steadfast will and laughter peels
Against the hollow cry of pitied fate that follows all but you.

May you dare to run with winds, then leap the shadowed ground
To whisper calls at stirring night, not feared of worried days.
And you, who triumphs in the light will be joyous in the dew
Beguiled and surprised to tell of truths, to likes of you and I.

May you always stay temperate in the sluice of unkind rains,
Bite parched tongues that rise to taste the bracken pall,
Find blue opals in the darkest well of circumstance,
And stretching, go beyond our normal mortal reach.

And long may you embrace all things that you will learn
And speak of such to those you know, and don’t.
May your breath be strong and full, and your songs be sung
And leave a smile in mind for those you aim to teach.

Oh may you hear amongst the shouts, the murmuring of souls -
Seek wonders found in chance and call of happenstance,
And understand the understandings you shall heed
And then, may you recall these wishes left by me.


Thankyou.

October 6th, 2005

You had a glow about you
amongst the harvest souls.
Pin sharpened in the blur,
like a gilded lion you spoke to me.
Smiling, serene and standing proud -
the one to notice in the crowd.
No need to seek you out -
you had a glow about you.
And I heard (but did not hear)
and I saw (but did not see)
and then I knew.
You, are
mine.


Mother.

October 4th, 2005

We are your aches and pain -
indenture you must bear.
On kind shoulders
column strong - with prideful grace
for hold of acrobats.

Not dare we tell of minds,
in awe of patient kind
that is your way.

Forgetting belligerence,
regretting not the binds -
you guardian sleep the world,
raising sun and moon as we desire,
tucking in the day.


Water.

October 4th, 2005

Oh I have drunk enough,
and swallowed, and gulped
then spat through grins.
And I have splashed my eyes
with humble sodden cloth,
felt shivers start within.
And I have dived to swim,
against the current’s sway
with limbs that struggle on
but know not what they crave -
this most divine commodity,
this precious thing,
it links our souls
and I shall waste
no more.


It.

September 30th, 2005

What
is this thing -
this commune of souls
we now join?
Like calm weirpool’s rest
after spin of current
washing names
from stones.
You have entered me
and I have entered you
and we are one -
beneath the wind,
beneath the river kiss,
beneath even clefted earth.
And still we ask.


Fading.

September 29th, 2005

Watch now before you blink
Don’t miss the twinkling shards,
The spin against the water’s cloak
No number counts these thoughts you think.
Catch now the roaring chains of light
Afore this smudden dull of winter night
Before our afterwards of summertide
Such ancient thrills that now evoke,
Must fade like silvered ink -
Return the borrowed hours
Masking season’s interlink.


Heroes Wind.

September 27th, 2005

All hear the Bellowhead
Sucking us in - like fireflies
Circling end of summer sigh
From young bucks leap
O’er old man’s grimace grey.
Like madrigal birds at dusk -
On accordion breath that heaves,
With fiddling sentry’s hotfoot dance
To circus lights and roguery.
Let it blow like Bucovina brass
And let us show our red flamed hair,
Then know this copper breeze
That hails a bellowed call
Of grand traditions,
In the air.


I Regret…

September 26th, 2005

Beds not made,
and dusty sills,
the washing-up and
headache pills.
The harshest words
for smallest ills -
like huff and puff
on trundled hills.
The words not spoke,
the things undone
from plans not won,
and songs unsung.
The wasted time
like chastened sand
that fell on hands,
or clutched sunshine,
and two-few smiles
not feared of miles.
And all of the above,
is not enough.


Sticky.

September 24th, 2005

‘You are beautiful’ he wrote.
Scribbled on a thousand notes.
Trailing morning route -
stuck on posts
and windows too.

‘You are beautiful’ she read,
and saw this thing he said.
Running to her head -
like crushskin bread
and tiny clues.

‘How beautiful’ she thought.
A lover’s kind report?
Or was this last resort?
Either way,
Quite obviously NOT
her sort.


Naked.

September 22nd, 2005

I am not nude
nor posed
nor pre-supposed
I am not rude
nor exposed
nor juxtaposed
and I’m not crude
or self-imposed.
This matter’s
closed.


Full Moon Day.

September 20th, 2005

Such is passion you invoke
Much are feelings you provoke
Touched I am by tender stroke
Like hushing flame and twisting smoke
Lush sense knows you have awoke
Like midnight flush on new moon oak
I rush to hear the words you spoke
For such is passion you invoke.


Cut it.

September 19th, 2005

Shut up, cut the cord
From you to a future come
Stretched but sanguine too.


Interpret This.

September 19th, 2005

All of you bloody poets
Who do you think you are?
How dare you feign to speak
For puzzled souls like me.
And just because you aim to voice
What I only sense inside
It doesn’t make you right,
It doesn’t mean you’re qualified.
You say the things the way you do,
To make me try and work things out.
Stop questioning the way I feel -
Start writing about you,
And who the hell,
You poets think
You are.


The Pool.

September 19th, 2005

All human life is here,
And the water doesn’t mind.
Young wavemakers in laughter,
Mothers below the wash,
Fathers sucking stomachs in.
And the water doesn’t mind.
It doesn’t mind the chemicals
The toddler piss, the heated hiss
It doesn’t heed the constant churn
Of carefree souls that never learn.
All human life is passing through
Equal skin in belly of pool.
Dabbling playful shallow,
Daring deepest end,
Darkest unknown floor.
And still the water
Does not mind.


Reply Required.

September 15th, 2005

Dear computer, I am infatuated with you. And you tease me so. I think about you often - about what makes you tick, about the places we could go and the things we could … do. I just don’t know. What do you want from me? Do you enjoy the hold you have over simple folk like us? I say us, because I am sure you know many other guys and also curious girls chasing promises, seeking answers, reaching out - smitten, as we are. And just where, are *we* headed? An answer - please. But not cold and unfeeling, not functionally truthful (like only you can be). Show me there is more to this than vain hope floundering in the wires, or dead petals greying in the datastream. And again, please. Tell me. What do you really think of me?


Change’s wind.

September 13th, 2005

Gather in the sun
Make the most
Before it’s done
Watch ripples
One last time
See the flowerings
Nature’s won
Meditate on how
Summer’s changed
The evening show
And even birdsong
Before season’s reel
And greying days
We all will know
Farewell now
To kind and warm
Before the storm
Before the spike
Of needle wind
And open souls
transformed.


Old Friend Doubt.

September 12th, 2005

I made a mistake.
This isn’t my life after all.
They said; ‘life’s what you make it’
but that’s just not true.
I would never admit defeat,
but must own up to some conceit -
I thought the world was there to take,
thought the earth was mine
beneath my feet.
But now come whisperings,
thoughts I should probably heed -
responsibilities and tripping points
like nine tenth icebergs,
cold and waiting underneath for me.
Yes, I’ll now admit to my mistake -
at least that’s one choice
I alone can make.


Try.

September 10th, 2005

In all I’ve said
I’ve tried to say
In all I’ve told
I’ve tried to tell
In all, I’ve tried.


Automated.

September 10th, 2005

Press ‘1′ for feeling
Press ‘2′ for imagination
Press ‘3′ for respect
Press ‘#’ to start again.
Insert this, in that
then key it in.
Forget ink and pen
but remember your PIN
And check everything
you’ve entered…
I must be stupid
(or something)?
The system says
I’m overdue -
cannot continue,
but I know different.
Send me down the chute,
where fall self-serve damned
with fingers trapped and bruised,
digit-split, but humanity intact.
And someone tell those automated folks;
‘Guess what, we are people too’
before all the royal operatives,
become otherwise engaged.
Go on - supposedly they
really value our calls.
I could do it myself
but today, I’m indisposed.
So please, feel free
to leave a message
after the tone.


Jump.

September 6th, 2005

My heart was a sea-cracked harbour wall
Where once young legends lept and fell
In macho dare and banished care
In acrobatic grace and boastful tell
That knew not well of rocky layer
Below the lowest touch of tide
Below the coldest shock of blue
Still hearing shouts of youth
Amidst the seagull cries
That circle old men’s eyes
I watch for catch of sea
And sigh.


Centrifuge.

September 5th, 2005

One day the world will stop
But you shall leap the circle’s stall
Though still, the glassy pebbles fly
And angry boulders run down hills
Onto shoulders push against the pull
With wavering urge of spinning tops
And spiralling seeds in final fall
Like Catherine Wheels that call.
And when rounding winds desire
They’ll cease their turn within
For such is fate that never tires.
One day the world will stop
But you, will carry on.


Passive Apology.

September 4th, 2005

Oh, sorry.
Didn’t mean to offend.
I was just … resting here awhile
Thinking on things, journeying inside.
The rules involved weren’t clear to me,
I did not think you’d mind so much.
Me, just sitting and watching
This world and others passing by,
Not knowing you demand a show.
Tell you what, give me a few more days.
Just need to collect my thoughts
Before moving on.


Grass.

September 4th, 2005

What a perfect lawn.
Bottle green nourished and sparkling
In the dawn like a King’s blanket,
Carefully thrown across the ground below.
It was here, she thought of him.
Here, where she let children loop their hearts,
Watched ambling lovers rest and sip red wine
Where nervous souls unwound the day
And owls embraced their quiet time.
This barefoot salve for tired steps
A million tiny hands that stroked,
That told of newness in the day
But always reminding her of him.
And she, amidst this memory,
so proud of tender green.
He’d just laid down.


Numb Again.

September 1st, 2005

What they had is gone,
And all I feel is blankness.
Numbed like some medicated fool
Avoiding their wretched reality.
It’s not indifference or avoidance though -
I suspect it to be more a kind of odd guilt,
Like a fog that pities the landscape
But nonetheless must smother the light below.
Something IS there, but must not be seen,
Something is aware, but nust not be known.
All they had is gone and I’m numb again.
With hollowness, with vague intent
Writing to you under
Postcard-dry skies.
What else can
I do?


Not for Sale.

August 31st, 2005

Look to samphire skies
Where nature’s stations form
Where playful dusk twists sun
And stars begin to turn.

Gaze on, gaze on
Where nations share the show
Where children learn to muse
With horizon twine and flow.

Drink-in the twilight breach
Where souls run to rivered night
Feel winds that rest and contemplate
Then breathe what we all know.

No-one owns the sky.


Question.

August 19th, 2005

Who
are we
to pre-suppose
to know that we are those
that shine with special glow.
We are merely they,
that follow normal ways
asking questions as we go
of whom and what we want to be.
And what is this we wonder now?
Who the hell,
are we.


Animals.

August 18th, 2005

Let’s get drunk
and **** like monkeys!
Let’s roll around awhile
and wail like midnight dogs
intoxicated by our own smell.
Let’s be the untied beasts
of strange instinct within -
boundless and carnal,
without culture or regard
for nothing less than our release.
And after, we can lie together
and sniggle like embarrassed mice,
laughing at how very silly
all the other animals
have been.


Abstraction.

August 17th, 2005

I have been thinking
about abstraction.
About huge brushed pools,
with meaning smudged -
blurs of pure sensation
beyond the frame.
There is a divine push
and colour pull defined
even in the ripple strokes,
like feather blown breaths
one step on from canvas pins,
from paint, from turpentine.
In this picture all expands and flows
away from mortal confine with confidence it goes,
with unhindered power that shakes the edge of things,
with desire to distillate our own living.
And there, composing the scene,
with big-sky eyes of refracted gaze,
a creator clearly shows how life can bend,
be skewed without context and earthly things,
or logic’s curse to manifest or represent.
And the more I see, the more I look,
the more I look, the more I know.
But still, I fail to fully understand.
Why do artists chase blue shadows
for mysterious intent?


A Week Without Socks.

August 15th, 2005

There I was.
Beyond sand-burned restless toes
Now stilled beneath my deskbound woes.
No mails to write no calls to make
No complex thoughts to navigate.
Barefoot and tributary washed
I was wind-cooled freedom stepped
Jumping waves and chasing roll of tide
As far as eyes could call.
And I must - I must remember
The melting sundae blend of sky
To heat haze shores and on.
I felt warmth of gritted soles and feet
Laid down and spilled on red-hot rocks
That led toward the edge of sands
Where men like I must run to find
The blessed kiss that ocean always tells
To souls now wearing polished shoes
And stifled reign of socks.


Lighthouse Keys.

August 4th, 2005

Who stole
the lighthouse keys?
No beacon can I see.
No roaming beam
circling by degrees,
reaching out across the sea,
Oh keep these rocks away from me.
Who stole the lighthouse keys?
Who snubbed candle’s reach?
No seam of light to hold the night,
no mark and guide cross awkward skies,
and now, the screeching gulls of eventide.
No more I see - just mystery
controlled by those who stole
the lighthouse keys.


Bad Gig.

August 2nd, 2005

I can’t hear the guitar
and the cymbals sound shrill.
The bass is just a mumble
and it saps my goodwill.
All the vocals sound bizarre
and nothing fits the bill,
and it makes me want to grumble
about these musical ills.
Never wanted to be a big star,
just jump above the mill
but all I do is stumble -
watch my pride go downhill.
But the next gig will be better
and I will recognise my own skill
and these vain doubts will crumble,
when again I feel the thrill.


Damn the Butterflies.

August 1st, 2005

What makes them so special?

They can fly, yes.
They can flash like jewels in summer, yes.
So what, that they flit with beauty’s charm.

We can do all these things too.
We can, you know (but perhaps you do not).
And anyway, who is to say that when we die
we don’t all come back as butterflies?

And such thoughts should not be left
just to the melancholy of you and I.

Ah yes, you and I …
at each end of the line - pulling against
our doubts and fear like brutes in tug of war -
not knowing without wings we can fly.


Acrimony.

July 29th, 2005

You
lit the fuse inside
and were the muse beside
quelling bruise and cry of tide
never refusing or denied.
Oh how you skewed my pride
and continued to deny -
no use for us to try
or choose as we
not I.


Guilty Sleeper.

July 29th, 2005

There are some who cannot sleep
but I am not one of those.
Maybe it is sunflares, or wireless waves -
or just careless late night revelries
that cause my eyes not want to see,
and crave the shut and hide
from light and ordinary days.
Oh how sweet a fix of sleep might be
for me here counting blinks of hours,
from daylight bounds to cushioned doze.
Maybe I’m just getting older?
Or staring at the screen too long?
Perhaps a candle burned all sides?
And as I cup my forehead in cold palm hands,
and drift awhile before whip-snapped back,
I’m too tired to feel guilt or fully realise
my luck - that I’m not one of those,
who cannot sleep.


Inky Fingers.

July 27th, 2005

He left
before the ink
had dried.
Just stood up,
pushed the chair
then walked away.
But not in temper or frustration -
more like quiet, pensive air
such as that found at the end of exams
or when signing mortal documents.
This was determined consideration,
as evidenced by the pen lined up -
gracefully placed with elegant hand
in symmetry with closed covers
and memories scrawled,
like old ledger marks recalled.
But there was deathly deliberation
when he capped the lid and bit his tongue
to stop the thoughts that leaked
on paper trails and trials,
that lead to you and me.
It was not good for him you see;
this opening of secret boxes,
this butterfly chase without a net.
This nakedness of soul before an ocean -
it hurt just a bit too much.
And so he sighed and left
before the ink
could dry.


And We are Lost.

July 26th, 2005

Like
needles spun
from north to south
talking circled hope
and pushing on
like rivers run
from fount to mouth
discarded ropes
below the sun.
And all things done
when we were young
on scattered slopes
now end before
they have
begun.


To The Poet Getting Darker.

July 25th, 2005

Hoist your sight above the lashes
weighing like cross-roped crates,
their cargo pressing down
upon your eyes.

Why - when there is much more
to see, to experience, and to learn
must you focus on the hatches
and not the sky?
Why?


Sway of Older Love.

July 22nd, 2005

It started,
with a cursor kiss
and keyboard strokes
before they clicked.
Then whispered nights
became the safety net
that fixed the breath
of teasing swoon
and furtive sighs.
But these,
weren’t young fools
or sweat-soaked youth.
No, these souls
had learned the dance before -
a thousand times in fact
it should be known.
And every step
was shared.
So they danced.
They really danced.
Not just in notion, nor theory -
but like fiery molecules,
rolling in energetic flux
like downhill streams
rushing to sea,
in synchronicity.
Treading dreams
of flowered sway and
waltzes in the shadows
behind St. Wenseslav’s horse
they whirled and flitted -
not wondering where hours
roam or care to go.
And that was that.
And they both knew -
the moment when
the dancefloor
moved.


Wired.

July 20th, 2005

Here, we are ghosts in the armature
rattling cage and tugging tight the lines.
Like puppets hung in trapeze swing,
with harness pull from wind and spool.
And we are neon birds on tangled toes
with careful steps over charged cathode.
We move from A to B, then on to Z
with plug and play perfundity.
Let’s pull away the wires,
try to find the real
you and me.


For Two.

July 19th, 2005

This one’s for the two of you
as you rise like stars above,
like prayered hands that clasp
the twin souled magnet night.

This one’s for the two of you,
in kissing wind and shared air,
like gulping silver fish that rush
to capture all, to be the ones.

This one’s for the two of you
who think these thoughts you share
and gaze in pools of eyes and soul,
so fall in love (again) with wonder found.


How Will You Know?

July 18th, 2005

When all your words are voiced outloud,
And every leaf is sketched and proud,
With every nod amongst the crowd
As shuffled air inside a cloud.

When you count totals of the days,
And mark the notches in your ways,
With charted limits to your gaze
As mitred pace in things you say.

When all goes back into the box,
And wheels spin hard against the blocks,
With silence before aftershock,
As melting ice amongst the rocks.

How will you know?


Through a Lense.

July 17th, 2005

I saw the dancer smile.
She couldn’t hide her happiness
for all of us who sat in front
in theatre aisles.
It was clear sat ten rows back -
seeing this clarity of moment.
It was all magnified and close -
spotlight precise in focus;
Sometimes, when we look for joy
we need help to see
more clearly.


Brown Paper Bag.

July 13th, 2005

Even a champion will sometimes find
situations that conspire to defeat ambition.
Contained maybe, by wrapped circumstance -
a soul in crinkled hold - in darkened fold
exhausted by the walls that sap his will,
that suck the air that starves the light.
Trapped, in a brown paper bag - scrunched and
dirty bunched, held tight in fate’s hand.
And he has tumbled in with bruises
and sweaty fists that push against
the muted thing he dreads to know.
Even champions will tire.


Five Years and Counting.

July 12th, 2005

Bananas
and onions
that’s all
he wants to eat.
Oh! This little boy
will be the death of me.
He rides his bike
without his helmet on,
and wails when I defy his will -
makes me feel that I am wrong,
when his trousers
are too loose and itch
his thrashing legs
that kick me in the jaw.
‘Lighten up’ I think when he
tightens up his noose on me,
this bedtime story heckler,
this seasoned pre-school shirk
up against a punch drunk fool
waiting to hear the bell.
And one of us will go to hell
but I’m sure it won’t be him.
It’s when he smiles you see -
he’s an angel, who hides
his wings.


Stepping Stone.

July 11th, 2005

There’s a stone in my shoe
under gavel of tread and stride.
A remembrance that coincides
with stomach-knot reminders
and memento sighs returning
with every step away from days
before today.

Then, we walked barefoot,
it seemed a thousand miles.
Over hot rocks like peppercorn steaks,
Over warm, soft dunes like sifted nutmeg,
Over rutted shale towards seaweed dance.
And there, with grazed ankles, toes and heel,
that was when you taught me how to feel -
to let the soothful waves just brush away
all unkind gravel, stone and sand.

And now, there’s a stone in my shoe.
And it annoys and bothers me so,
I wonder what I should do -
that’s why, I think of you.


Dark.

July 7th, 2005

I will keep this thought
to myself tonight.


The First Fibonacci Poem

July 7th, 2005
F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .

F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
	
F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
	

F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
	

F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
	
F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
	

Nuance.

July 6th, 2005

Nuance.
Now there’s a good word.
A sense, a feeling
of sophisticated subtlety.
Like something you can’t see
or touch, or taste
beyond mundane reality.
Something you can’t quite place
or an underlying philosophy -
perhaps what you might call
intrinsic personality.
Not quite sure and not quite there
like quiet tones in painted air.
But definitely everywhere.
The signals of distinction
I often miss in the meaning,
in the mystery of all
you mean to me.


If I Were.

July 5th, 2005

If I were a woman
would you like me more?
I wouldn’t mind -
In fact, it might
be rather nice.
If I were a woman
how would you speak to me?
Would I understand
the secret code
that only women know?
If I were a woman,
would I change my ways?
Would my world turnaround?
Would I learn of grace
or struggled ways?
And if I were a woman,
what of sexuality?
Inevitable. You knew I’d ask,
but intriguing nonetheless.
I just don’t know all this
and never will.
But I am sure
it would be fun
to try.


Norwegian Jazz.

July 5th, 2005

OK.
I’ll admit it.
I’ve been listening
to Norwegian Jazz.
Is that so bad?
There’s this track
by Jaga Jazzist;
“Swedenborgkske Rom”
It really speaks to me
of things we’ve spoken.
of life, of age, of hope
of loneliness and
melancholy too.
This music,
like winter fused
with hopeful sun and deer breath
in the spill of time.
And then a cracking melt
as ice and whales call below.
A sound, wise and crystalline,
childlike though and kind.
Ah yes … so haunting!
As if aged ghosts
were calling back their echoes
from iceberg nights.
Deep as fjords
and rivers spawned,
I listen to Norwegian Jazz,
and think of you.
I wonder if
you’d like
it too.


Y o u Never See Backstage.

July 4th, 2005

Who holds the ropes
That tug the pulleyed sky?
Who drapes the blinds of night
O’er blinking lamp of day?
They, with black-out eventide,
Down cross dusked light,
Bringing scene-changed actors back;
To curtain call of spotlight moon.
Much more than stagehand turnaround,
More than cued-up interlude,
More indeed than men can comprehend.
Who masterminds this sunset show?
This finely tuned performances -
Before a thousand billion heartfelt bows
I need to tell them how I feel,
Who are they? Do you know?


See You.

July 3rd, 2005

So,
it’s goodbye again.
I’ll go back to memories
and wonderings of what you’re gonna do,
what you’re doing, and what you’ve done.
It’s odd. I always thought
we were a duration pair -
like doubled packed lightbulbs
waiting to be found in the drawer.
Maybe not and never mind.
A single lighted match
will have to do.


Sleeper’s Junction.

July 1st, 2005

Meet me,
at the first dream to the left
after the midnight bells.
I’ll be the one wearing a cape
made from peacock’s pride,
and a satin patch over
the wrong eye.
I mean it!
I’ll be there!
Waiting,
for someone -
someone like I’ve never met
(but have always known).
Someone carrying magic
in the heels of their shoes.
But how will I know
if it is you?


Cold.

July 1st, 2005

Wind,
that dulls.

A selfish air
that doesn’t care.

Rattling me.
Knocking bones.
Cooling heart
like ice sirens
smiling before
the freeze.

Am I so empty?
So… spacious inside,
Why let these fronds
of discontent
take fingerhold
within?

Such spiteful things
thrive in unbound air,
and clutch and ride
on doubts we leave
behind.

Was it you
that started this?

Was it you that passed
through me?


Proud White Trash.

June 29th, 2005

Stop rooting around
and gazing at the finery.
Stop staring at the bottom
of the bin they’ve put you in.
You’re worth so much more
than those wailing sighs,
and blodshot nights,
that bruise your heart
in awkward fight.
Don’t you understand?
There is noble majesty
in the darkest maggot bowl -
burning bright and lighting
rusted scrape and tin,
and meaning so much more
than other unkind souls
will ever mean to me.


The Lovers.

June 28th, 2005

I saw them.
Kissing in the breeze,
Like bulrush reeds knocked
In fervent love’s wind.
The careful stoop of him
The rise of her, leaning, bowing, bending -
Brushing the air with abandonment.
In tender togetherness, moving
Like twisting stems,
Climbing to meet the sun
Circling each other at dawn.
Strange, I thought
To see them there, together.
To see such delightful intimacy.
And then, I realised.
These were only
memories.


Arrow of Truth.

June 27th, 2005

Can you run faster than the truth?
Can you catch it in your hands,
And throw it back to us?
Strike the bullseye!
Split the apple!
Storm the ramparts!
We all have targets
in our hearts.


Fire.

June 25th, 2005

Does a flame know when it burns?
Or of its brethren’s fellow toil?
All burn bright because they must
And all of this is down to trust.
Is this faith, or faith in destiny?
No call to idols and unproved deities,
Who comprehend these things that vex
Apart from Artist’s charcoal scratch.


Rain.

June 25th, 2005

Let us be caressed
like refreshed lovers,
underneath fingertip rain.
Let us lie below the sky
and feel the wake up calls,
falling like soft arrows -
into valleys of tired skin.
Let us smile amid the downpour.
Let us swim in rivers formed.
It is Summer and now
we should welcome rain.


Azure.

June 21st, 2005


Azure.
Only morning brings them to me
Glinting like iced stones in the half light
Tangle-tongued and smiling - I cannot describe
These subtle beacons, like backward glow-worm tails
Like blue stained chorused chimes that resonate
The very core and into me - searchlight mined
And such mornings bring them to me
The only time I ever really see
Your nearly azure
eyes.


Spoke.

June 20th, 2005

There’s more here
than you shall ever know,
and that’s the way
of things.

Here,
we are all but only here
in this strange
invented place.

But together
we roll, as two -
like bonded wheels
over ancient tracks.

Any more than this,
we dare not dream -
but that’s O.K.
by me.


Punk.

June 19th, 2005

Obvious really…

I
like,
punctuation.
It really helps -
to frame the words.
Like breaths and sighs,
and pauses - reigning track of thought.
But then, sometimes, it’s frustrating;
stutter and muddle - jolt and bolt.
Things come out …. fractured
and staid. But then again -
I’m getting there.
Wherever,
that,
is.


Writing.

June 16th, 2005

Hunched
and squinting,
at the screen.
I lean toward
your soul within.
Bunched
and hinting,
what it means.
Slim rewards
are everything.


Above All This.

June 16th, 2005

Only when the glimmer ends
Will we pine for shinest moon
Then gone will be the argon sky
And footprints in the light.
Only when the clouds contend
Will we wrestle grey cocoon
And gaze in open barreleyes
At fortitute of atoms bright.
Only when the stars descend
Will we soar yet soul marooned
As tethered flashes leaping high
Like lost balloons in age’s flight.
Then alone, and only then,
Will we know friends.


I Am Not Asleep.

June 16th, 2005

Hello.
Are you there?
I said ARE YOU THERE?
Or did I just imagine you?
Maybe you are just a shadow
emboldened by my propensity
to see faces in clouds.
And as hollow wind moans,
maybe you really are just a figment -
detached and wandering the sands,
but too dispersed for me to see.
Hello? Where are you?
There’s tumbleweed twisting
over the waiting ghost of me,
and still I cannot shake
this stupid vanity.
Hello, is that you?
I just love it when
you visit me.


Green.

June 13th, 2005

It’s the colour she wears
and I see her everywhere.
I see her in trees
and in hillside shows,
I see her on grassy mounds
on bankside river flow.
She throws a shawl upon the land
and playss her verdant hand.
It’s the colour she wears
and I see her everywhere.


Realisation.

June 12th, 2005

When you become a father
The world turns differently
And wheels that used to spin
Now roll with soul within.


A Poet’s Prayer.

June 10th, 2005

God, save us from the dullards
And the pedants and the mean
Give us strength to rise above
The cloying webs they weave.
Send cutting winds that blow
The ties of their mundanity
Let them follow wiser ways!
Reminding all of our humanity!
Lord, steer us from awkwardness
Away from oafish push and shove
Take doubters and the unkind sane
Move them like the wings of Jove.
Give us joy in our creativity
So then we may again believe
In you, above and willing on -
And caring for our frailty.


Ordinary.

June 9th, 2005

I wanted to write
but now I’m not sure.
Do I feel sweeping and
glorious or mystical?
Should I forgive my vanity
and doubt, clasp together
opposite arms in poetry?
My eyes are tired,
and so are my bones
and without caffeine
I cease to be.
Why bother?
What is it I feel
so driven to say?
I really don’t know
(and tonight I don’t care).
We can sort this out
another time.


In the Air.

June 8th, 2005

Words,
like butterfly dust,
blown as windseed
ether-cast thoughts.
No more than breath,
thrown to skyhold
clasp of sparkle stars.
Mist and cloudsong,
feeling’s balm -
like heaven’s never
rain.


Learning.

June 6th, 2005

She smiled, like a cello on its side,
and I bowed my finger cross the wires.
A nervous student, without notes,
without manuscript or lines -
I felt brutish and naive.
But then she sighed,
and all symphonies
combined.


Frosted Wings.

June 6th, 2005

And who put this barrier between us?
It refracts the knowing of who we are.
This splintered view, smudged
and denying the truths of everything,
it diffuses our connectedness.
We orbit such frayed outskirts -
you and I, like lost and aching birds
mist drenched, circling.
Reticent to land.


Slowing.

June 3rd, 2005

Poorly fish,
gravel stilled as he now is.
Despite the occasional flurry,
the current that used to buoy
now pins his tired body down.
Flat-finned and waiting, he lies
patient for the quietened sand -
perhaps, remembering sparkle
and bubble rise of leaping youth.
And I too, recall this golden flash
amidst the world it swam within.
And we both now wait for the end
as I watch and will him to the rise,
to fight for food and light -
to health and extended life.
But now, all he knows is this;
A fish that does not swim,
is not a fish.


Think.

June 2nd, 2005

Eat for the hungry,
for they cannot feed themselves,
then swim for the dust-bowl kids,
who crane to catch the water drops.

Be stylish for the ragged dressed
in sun-bleached *ethnic* clothes,
and laugh out loud for desolate hearts
who know not love nor family.

Run free for the stumbling ones
when they cannot leave the dirt,
you can wake and smell the roses
for sake of sewered folk and down.

Speak joy for these muted souls,
Rest serene for all their wearied toils.
Then sip tea and watch it all, on your TV
(for those with no electricity).


Stream.

June 1st, 2005

Let the
water flow
down stoney slope
through hillslip mud,
breaching kid built dams
over oldwash twigs.
Let it filter,
let it purify,
let it flow.


Tides.

May 29th, 2005

Every tear that ever fell,
Every night of ocean’s swell,
Every scent and every smell,
Every year drawn from the well.
Every sunset says farewell,
Every molecule and cell,
Every stone that must rebel,
Every memory on which we dwell.
Every peel of nature’s bells,
Every movement in the fontanelle,
And everything here I now foretell -
All, but whispers in the yell.


Sell By Date.

May 29th, 2005

Between the coffee and the chocolate
that’s where we will be -
checking out, before the check-out,
eyeing basket tell-tailed groceries.
Our non touch dance without romance,
and furtive glance of no demand.
A flirtation, so subtly voiced
between the heaving aisles.


Proud.

May 29th, 2005

I watched you drawing,
and I was just so happy.
You crossed the road alone,
and found the best view
then set yourself up -
as if for the thousandth time.
Did you know I was sneaking
quick looks across the way?
You, sitting on that pavement box
like an awkward wunderkind.
Me, watching your head weaving,
back and forth - collecting
what you saw, placing it all
so carefully on the sketch
you drew so beautifully.
You looked so content,
so grown-up. I felt selfish
in my want for you to stay
forever in such a happy place
along with the scribblings
that marked your new adventure.
Ah well, at least you may remember
the day you drew a picture of our house
and the time you made your father
so very, very proud.


Ego.

May 28th, 2005

Who am I?
Well, I know this -
I am NOT you.
Unless of course,
you slept and dreamed
that we touched souls
in the night, merging
into one.
Who am I?
I am NOT who
you think I am.
Unless of course,
just in the thinking
you brought me into being -
formed me like some
imaginary friend.
Who am I?
Well, I’m NOT sure -
does it really matter
in the end?
Perhaps I am just
here, now,
in this moment
of you, wondering
who I am.


Mmmmmmm.

May 27th, 2005

Let me think …
Is it almonds, butterscotch?
or chocolate coated marzipan?
It could be caramel even,
but it’s duskier than that.
Powdery, like sun dried sheets
or bathwater patchouli.
And then there’s citrus too,
(but not too perky)
like mulled wine
or lemon grove dew
in the morning.

All are scent of you.


Puppet Man.

May 26th, 2005

Behind the puppet show
where children never go,
there stands a lonely man
who tugs the strings
that bind the arms
of childish things.

Behind the puppet show
and stripy canvas throws,
lie nervous little hands
with spinnered plans
to hide the charms
that clownhood brings.


Rainbow Somewhere.

May 26th, 2005

Shame you missed the rainbow
I really wanted you to see,
it was like the edge
of a butterfly wing
magnified and stretched
across the sky.
Something about it
seemed so powerful,
so magical. I even believed
that on this strange day
it would curl from me
to you.


Persona Trap.

May 25th, 2005

Caught you are
By your own invention.
That thing for which you previously cared.
Stuck you’ve become on the tangle side
Cat’s cradle threaded over hands with no thumbs,
Tripping steps through mask room of fate
Now resounding for someone else -
Someone you don’t know
(Or never knew).
Someone,
Never,
You.


Never Silent.

May 24th, 2005

There is always something,
something that reminds -
it marks the pass of time.
The dusky click of clockwork hands
and helpless hold of hours lost,
the always notching gears
and cogs of slowly whittled days.
Such things remind
your muted fate.
Every baby cry.
Every laugh and sigh.
Every question asking why.
All but moves toward
a final hammer call,
and echoed nails bullied down,
buried into trickling soil
and stone that falls
upon this quiet sleep
as creaking lichen grows.


You are Wind.

May 23rd, 2005

You are the soft wind that circles
In orbit around my earthly heart
The ceaseless breeze that kisses
But never slows in its domain
Over me, in reign of bounded soul
Over helpless capstone sleeves
My close-eyed hope that waits
For arc and sweep and tilt to I
And change in your trajectory.


Slide.

May 22nd, 2005

All blue in the old Beehive
We’re hearing full moon wail
Wall to wall with twitching men
Holding pints and keys on chains
Their nodding purse of wisened lips
And naive balls of leisured feet
Crane in spectacle of him -
In Sunday’s best and gravel voice;
All hailed might of Watermelon Slim.


British Summer Time.

May 20th, 2005

It’s time to re-arrange the coats and shoes,
and it troubles us there are some we never use.
Especially now, we’re on the cusp of sunny days,
gone should be Wellies and brolly stand ways.
Soon, it’ll be time for birdsong chime
and jaunts, and hushed marvelling at the climb.
We’ll sit at the top of the hill with beer instead of rain,
watch people flowering in their saunter up the lane.
A time for sleep and softkissed breeze,
evening pored with dreams that race like bees.
And on towards the half-eyed chase of dawn,
we’ll tip-toe over dewsoaked lawns.


To You.

May 19th, 2005

I shall leave some words
for you to find when I am gone.
Words from the secret one -
written thoughts not dared to voice.
Words from the inside -
sculpted from imaginings,
into real, tangible things.
I will leave some words
for you who seek
a part of me that’s
left behind.


PianoMan.

May 17th, 2005

Not even poets know his name
This man who cuts all labels
from his virtuoso clothes.
And he who only speaks
through wistful
enigmatic notes,
has used no words
in weeks of history
with doctors and interpreters
from Poland, France (and Sweden too).
He has no voice -
slammed shut in mystery.
Incommunicado,
since that rain-soaked night
of sudden wandering
that puzzles all.
Did he fall out with someone?
Did he fall off a ship?
Did he fall off the world?
Listen how
he plays for solace
in his days.


Black Earth.

May 16th, 2005

As dark as weasel toes we dig for agate glow
Where once were diamonds below coal
Lie mudcoat stones of mortal kind
Some say shaded magic casts a starless night
Hides the toil of hooded sky
As quiet shipwrecks leak their hold
Then ride on nightmare’s foals
All, spitting dust to claim,
Our ill-considered souls.


Big.

May 15th, 2005

Older than I’ll ever be
and wider than the stars
wiser than desires of ours
boulder to the grains of we.


Down.

May 14th, 2005

I am falling like leaf spun in autumn roll
Like a papered plane in downward fall
There goes grace in gravity’s hold
On this air of splintered boards
As if it is not the landing
that really matters
As if it is the
glide that
counts
.


Dandelions.

May 11th, 2005

She asks for Dandelions
but all I have is words.
Words like lemon, mane
or honeysticks
and beaconed yellow
fireworks.

Words,
they might resound
like sepal, petal, stamen -
even floral formula
diagrams.
All these stretch
to summer ankle fields,
near quietened sphere
of where I am.


When Dreamers Meet.

May 11th, 2005

Last night I dreamed, and saw your face.
Framed behind the shutters of sleep
it WAS you, clearly smiling at me!
This was a strange recognition
like seeing an amnesiac polaroid,
and yours, was a composite
of all the faces I have seen.

Was it really you?

There was something I longed to say.
Something carried across the miles,
held close and desparate to be heard.
But as I dreamed and saw your face,
you grinned, and I then knew the real you.
I forgot my dullard words and turned away,
no longer feeling need or want to say.


Kites.

May 10th, 2005

Oh,
see the high ones play
like red and blue inkspots
in the willowing sky.
There. See them lifting
way above the over-hang
that influences wind
of little hopes like ours.
We try so hard to launch
above the shoulders
of windless days.
But do we feel
despair below the frame?
Do we know
the twisted strings
of innocence and crash?
No! Such earthly bindings
mean nothing to us,
who stay determined.
Soon, we WILL
fly!


Doldrummer’s Tale.

May 9th, 2005

There is a place
of windless sails and wing-clipped wails.
An airless space of slackened time
like old corroded twine
tethering heartbeats and nobled spirit.
A place where muted calls of fate
becalm the soul embalmed by ancient fronds
of ice-dipped hope that mystify the telescope
on age’s sky - where once white lions
pounced and played and roared
to memories and shores
of a youth that never
could be ours.


The Camel’s Back.

May 5th, 2005

A peerless raindrop caused the flood
Like a black cell in the cleanest blood.
This was the blink that turned to sleep,
The final rest to scythe its harvest’s reap.
This was the smear that blurred the sun
Through squinted looks that told us all
In whispers fanning flame of days,
Dried, the youthful leaves of one
Who once, could silence crowds.
With heartbeats and a single breath
Like a newborn calling the world
A tiny thought to change us all.
Such is the power of words.


The Rhythm Tree.

May 1st, 2005

I know
you miss
the rhythm tree,
remembering
seahorse sway
and mystery
through song
and groove
that writes itself
in the pocket
of time, touching,
feeling roots -
in sacred ground.
This is the beat
old friends know -
unified
in feel and flow.
Do not forget
the joyous seeds
that memories
can grow.


Climbing.

May 1st, 2005

Maybe I should shout this from a mountain top
But I don’t have a mountain to hand
If I did, it would be a magical place
Sculpted from some rare stone to propel my words
Closer to you, rising highest above the rival peaks
Appearing, as if mist shrouded Tibeten legend -
Now being revealed, but only to you.


Freshest Air.

April 28th, 2005

If I breathe, I breathe for thee
And every gasp of me doth resonate
With joyful air from ground to grove,
To mackerel sky above and back to me.
I breathe, I breathe for thee -
And atoms that we share agree.


Flotilla.

April 26th, 2005

oh

cast me

on the sea of you

like an ocean flower

lapping in the throw of tide

oh how you make me crave

the dive and clasp of pearls

the shifting sands below

from which I might rise

to driftwood breeze

and clips of wave

on sunset skin

triumphant in

the undertow

of you.

oh!

throw me

onto ebb and flow

immersed in mysteries

that you alone can show

oh let me sail on motion rolls

mark your seabound tack

on charts of journeys made -

of flowers lost then found

but never coming back

oh lift me, away…

drag me into you

then onto wonders

that only now

I dare to

know.


Diary of a Storm.

April 25th, 2005

I was a black hearted storm,
Giant in the crack of sky.
Telling all to cower and hide
Like sodden lads shivering
Below cracked windowsills
And hidings from drip and drain.

I sent them daggers of rain
From a sudden underworld,
Sliced the air into fragments
Of stilled and hushed awe,
Undoing the buckle and brace
Of comfortable lives.

Then, I scratched the skies.
Gave them electric glint
Connected ground and cloud
To signal my amusement
And spun them like reels
Reaching end of spool !

Above, I laughed on.
Enjoying the drama
Of this pretence
Over these scurried ants
Seeking shelter’s vanity
Below the leaves that blow.

But then, I felt subdued
And muted in intent.
I saw the ground below
In circle of season’s clash,
Sensed the cries of broken corn
And their angled stalks in bow.

Did I feel remorse?
Did my hesitation signal
Limitation of my force?
I stopped, and sniffed
The air and earth below -
All fine with harvest’s scent.


I Bow Again.

April 25th, 2005

There is nothing,
but this addiction.
This driving force
it forgoes good intent
to stay away, to just ignore
this all-day ache that grows
from worse to worse
and back again.
I don’t want
to speak
to you tonight
of moon or chemistry,
of souls or complex minds,
but I am marooned
by instinct’s pull
to bow again to you -
the reason for these
stumbling words.


Helpless.

April 24th, 2005

There are things
I should be doing,
away from thoughts
of you, with your breath
as sweet as honeydew.
You are everywhere
and everything.
Lost in you, I am
abandoned in your hold -
blind and blurred by the
flood and flow
of you that makes me
forget these things
I should be doing
yet still remain
undone.


Pantoum.

April 24th, 2005

We kiss like Chinese fish
Like loaded inkbrush strokes -
Circling grain and ancient turn
(The kind you see in father’s books).

Like loaded inkbrush strokes -
We are dipped and saturated
Playful, but disciplined in arc and flow
Swept below the dark-watered lilies of night.

We are dipped and saturated
Circling grain and ancient turn
Swept below the dark-watered lillies of night,
We kiss like Chinese fish.


Remembering.

April 22nd, 2005

Dad
once kicked a ball
so high - I swear,
it disappeared
into the clouds
higher than the stunt kites
he taught us how to fly.
That’s how it seemed,
and I remember
the green of the park.
This was the day
when we found a weir
(the one I lost my shoe in)
teeming with flashing trout,
and I was just so proud
when he cast his line
and reeled them in.
Speaking of water,
we sometimes stayed
on his cabin boat.
Named after us kids it was.
We didn’t see him much,
so these were special times
that always ended with
wind-tinkling masts
and exciting next day plans.
He was a captain,
with an adoring crew.
And, he had THAT look too!
His jazz look.
It would embarrass me so -
all beatnik crazy.
Nodding, finger-popping,
shouting “yeah”,
with starey eyes
and big band styled
hep cat smiles.
Ah, If only
I’d realised then.
I’d want to write
a thousand lines,
a million words or more -
about him, about laughter
about amazement - about growing up.
But that’s selfish,
so I won’t.


Glimpse.

April 21st, 2005

Today,
I lost myself.
Just for an instant,
it wasn’t me
standing there
thinking about
who and what I am.
And for a moment
I was nothing,
but a thought
bodyless and free.
Floating beyond
the soft cage
that is me.

Then,
I remembered.


Quiet.

April 20th, 2005

We dare not speak sometimes,
like children scared of grown-up things.
No wish to show our vulnerability,
we stare in silence, into the night
like harboured wives hoping for light
on tearing ream of darkened sea.

We share a strange, quiet, airless grace -
like canyon sealed butterflies, flitting.
From side to side - from mind to mind,
never risking wings in rockface flight.

And we dare not speak sometimes.
Like kidnapped souls afraid to call
for muted hold of hidden keys,
for locks that bind the unsaid things.

Speak up and hear
the untold thoughts
of you and me.


Liquid.

April 19th, 2005

Not years, or months - this season leap
Like skimmed stones spun on cleaving lakes
Not days, or hours - that lover’s keep
Or driftwood sprites helmed in flow.
Not time, feelings like ocean’s bones
Kissing moon-drenched span and bow.
All measures of a fate we share
Born of waters we’ll come to know.


Endless Poem.

April 18th, 2005

This is formally the begining
Of the longest poem ever written.
It will skip from serious to flippant
From prose to rhyme and back again.
It will change from classic style to free-form wild
It will twist and turn like a twisty, turney thing.
It will do WHATEVER it wants (or your own mood dictates).
Anything goes, but you must bear in mind -
This poem must never end.


Clockwork Heart.

April 18th, 2005

How
many
heartbeats
are we allowed?
How many ticks and tocks
of nature’s arms will subdivide
the days and nights when we collide
to ponder beats of life that mark
the turnaround to end of dance and song?
No answer for you now, my friend - I have stopped the count.
And as the final levers fall, within I come to realise;
It - won’t - be - long.


Little Shoes.

April 15th, 2005

Don’t look at me with naïve eyes,
like big splashed pebbles before sun
awaiting the kiss of eternal sea
and laughing curl of children’s toes.
Don’t look to me for all I can defy,
my vanity feigns to hold these years -
for you, who grows, whilst I stay old.
Don’t look back, don’t look ahead,
Don’t look now, don’t look, don’t look!
You’ll know when the moment comes
to race alone cross coarser sand,
towards the tide for running’s sake,
across the marks of necklaced time.
Then, you’ll look at me to say goodbye,
you’ll turn and wave, to face the spray
and I’ll throw away your little shoes.


Our Town.

April 13th, 2005

We may not have a river
Or seats of learned wise,
Or spires of aspiration,
Like reverend pencils
Filling scribbled sky.
We may not have urbanity
Or graceful galleries,
And eruditious eateries -
For simple tillaged folk
Like you and me.
But, we have community.
Where gentle rogues
Still rake the moon
And lovers swoon
Through squinted eyes.
We watch the midnight downland
Bonfires marking boundaries
For all of us that now accept
Our compromise.


Villanelle.

April 11th, 2005

This is difficult to write
I prefer to flow and not to know
for you, my villanelle tonight.

Complex are you in your delight
that vexes my words that grow
This is difficult to write.

Men like me do not normally invite
such discipline of thought to show
for you, my villanelle tonight.

And to you, this must be slight
but me, I need to take things slow
This is difficult to write.

We’re near close of rhyme that fights
and traps words in this fixed tableaux
for you, my villanelle tonight.

And so it must end, this debt I owe
the spurs I earn and then forgoe.
This was difficult to write
for you, my villanelle tonight.


Tired.

April 9th, 2005

It’s a Saturday night
and we should be in love
but you and me
are in different rooms
and you read magazines,
whilst I read catalogues.
After all these years,
that’s not too bad -
but it feels like a void
that can’t be crossed -
a conversation we must have
about conversations
we need, to have.

How should we start?


Someone Else’s Treasure.

April 8th, 2005

It’s mine now.
I found it,
and you didn’t miss it
until I told you
where it was.
If it was yours,
how come you
didn’t care
for it before?
You can’t
have it back now -
this thing needs
unreserved attention.
Anyway,
you shouldn’t
have thrown
it away.


Fit.

April 6th, 2005

It’s not
about love.
Or sexuality.
It’s about the way we fit.
Like the turn of stream that clings to mountainside
or heirloom keys in Grandma’s hand
Like pillow dip for tired eyes
or children’s palms at Christmas time.
It’s not wanting.
Or desire.
More like embers in the glee of coal
and clustered stars that sing for soul.
It’s the last piece in the jigsaw
It’s the shipping news at night
It’s the words I wish I’d said.
We just seem to
fit.


Brown River.

April 5th, 2005

Damn these currents that drag you down
and pull against the muddy rocks -
you don’t deserve such atrophy.
Spun and untoward in turbulence
that batters and crushes hope,
where gulps become swallow
of vile stew in which you sink.
My friend - just remember
to hold your breath, and kick
against this cruelest pull -
and you may again swim
toward the shallows.


I Want.

April 5th, 2005

Give me time
to speak of things.
when seconds tick
like flocks of birds
disturbed by change
and wind for wings.
Give me peace
and silent mull
for thoughts
like winter wine,
simmering
and warmed.
Give me all
you have
to spare
so I may save
the moments,
snatching songs
in these quiet
corridors.
Give me,
more.


Dancing Without Alcohol

April 4th, 2005

Remember abandoned days and midnight wheels
turned on endless paths of spin and move,
in ecstasy of spiraled youth
with feet that dared to leap above.
As hearts refused to stop and look
when souls explored without rebuff
where now your patterned heels crack
and age it comes to claim the slack.
To all of you, who dare not dance
but nonetheless remember well -
Such barefoot nights, such tales told -
The dancefloor’s in your soul.


Pause.

April 4th, 2005

I want
to write
I really do.
But tonight
it doesn’t feel
quite right.

I want
to speak of her,
hair blown
like faerie breath,
brushing cusp
of summer air.

I want
to tell you -
the bees
were out today,
saluting
stretching
sun.

Sadly I must
leave this
for another
day.


Solitude.

March 31st, 2005

Stop reading now.
This poem is not for you.
It’s for someone else -
someone close,
someone who goes
behind the meaning
of these words.
Still here?
I thought you’d stopped.
Well maybe you and me
could talk another time?
There’s nothing here
for you today -
for you that feels,
for you that walks
along the lines.
Please - leave now.
I need to be
alone.


The Mannequin Smiles.

March 31st, 2005

He is grinning,
Like a coldwax peach
Curled and constant,
On guard like a twisted
Forever-slept dog
Or a sleepover sigh
Echoing daydream
Stilted night.
They’ll be
No melting of this
Strange wax though,
No turn that breaks
The seal of time
Stood high upon
His rough hewn
Armature.
He grins,
Because of will of us
Who traipse to watch,
Along the path
That never wavers,
That never arcs
Like aspic oxbow
Frozen flow.
A thousand, thousand
Footsteps seek and feel
With tread and weary romp
Of seeded needs.
All buried deep
He holds his poise
Then contemplates
Why it is that he alone,
Should be the one
Who smiles.


Blue Horses.

March 30th, 2005

He sends her blue horses
On the reins of a smile
His love for her riding
On the backs of the miles
He sends her blue horses
They run from heart to soul
Across the great divide
Branding union of whole
Where stallions race
To sacred lover’s place
And heartbeats rise in mist
And horizon kisses sky.
He sends her blue horses -
But only she knows why.


Dumb.

March 30th, 2005

Don’t tell me
what you want
me to say,
or show me
what you want
me to see.
Don’t mark
the path
that I’m
not on,
or ask
what you
already
know.
Have you
forgotton
to remember?
I’m not that
dumb.


Men and Cameras.

March 28th, 2005

Bless these guys.
It’s almost like
reality is not enough.
Like glass lensed auteurs,
whose life just has to be seen
through mechanical eyes -
selecting and zooming
then editing the view.
No margin for error or surprise
in captured moments held
in satisfied frame,
in control of all they feel.
Neatly filing happiness
with f-stop calibration,
they can’t tell you
how wonderful something is
but they can show you
the photograph.

For the man who pushed my daughter out of the way
with his pumped up lens…


Keep Going.

March 26th, 2005

Don’t stop,
and don’t look back.
Every day has possibilities
for something new, something majestic
amongst the drudgery - a shining hope
glistening with flare of optimism’s flame
burning like magnified sun.


Must Read More.

March 26th, 2005

I was thinking
about Neruda and Rumi
and all these other folks
who I’ve never read.
Feel like such a phony -
I must read more
before I’m dead.


Let’s Move On.

March 24th, 2005

This house is just too small
For all these knick-knack memories
Stuffed in crevices and laid out
Like lingering refugees on the floor.
This junk we keep for old time’s sake,
This baggage piled but never sorted
Everywhere a story, everywhere a tale
And all those secrets never told.
It’s time we got this place
Cleared out, done up, and sold.
Let’s do it now, before
we grow too old.


Curtain Call.

March 24th, 2005

The shoots are out and blood feels flow
Of inner tide and undertow. The sun,
Alert to season’s bow, pulls chord
Of cloud-winged fanfare call,
To signal start of this -
A most extraordinary
Of shows.


Cool.

March 24th, 2005

You know what?
You were really
cool today.
And as they say;
“the coolest ones.
are those that
do not know”
I was suitably
impressed
with the way
you handled
yourself.
So cool,
so confident,
so right.
Like a tall man,
humble amongst
infants.
Like an icecube,
holding court
in melting
snow.


Perchance.

March 22nd, 2005

The night draws in the blanks
The day has left behind.
For troubled hearts like ours
That pine for rest through sleep
And soul becalmed below
The unprimed stars.
This healing shroud reveals,
The eventide balm that soothes
Us, bruised beneath the satin flags
Of sky like whispering waves -
To moon, upon, unseen, unbound.
Urging flight above the confines -
The brutish hold of gravity,
defied.


Twelve Cats.

March 21st, 2005

Astrophe was responsible for the end of the world -
A problem for Amaran who was sailing the globe.
Then there was Alogue who wrote it all down
And Hode of course, painting pictures for all.
Next came Holic, preaching holiness and peace
To Erpillar and Egory dividing lines from his book.
Kneeling below old Hedral’s cloistered beams
Harsis quietly waits for inspiration of heart
Behind quick witted Apult (the first to arrive)
And philosopher Ching, with Alyst in tow.
All purring vainly, that THEY were the ones
Who started it all.


Apology.

March 18th, 2005

Hello and sorry.
We havn’t spoken lately have we?
I’ve been too busy being selfish
digging around in my own sodden mine,
not thinking about you and things
you are also looking for.
It’s very difficult you see.
Sometimes, I just have to go
into myself, burrowing through
the lumps and bumps - digging
beneath my own world.
You know what?
The very next words
will be just for
you.


I Can’t .

March 18th, 2005

I can’t
decide if you are mine
or happenstance that falls
like bonfired leaves
on unsuspecting
souls like me.
I can’t
explain.
This grand design,
this torch you hold
that shines and warms
my heart, like …
wintered fairground rides
in turning sun, awake
and overjoyed
to be alive.
I can’t
ignore your
beacon reach
that tugs my soul -
swaying colour greyed,
from numb of age
to weight of days.
I can’t
exist without
the growth and flow
of you, of all you are,
and may become.
I simply can’t
deny this love I feel.
I can’t, I can’t,
I can’t.


Auditorium.

March 15th, 2005

My head is a palace of song
Where sleepy kings and families
Do lie and wait for melodies
That raise the slumbered heart
And teach the dance of life itself.
My head is a golden opera
Where Divas sing of passion
Of life’s regret and tragedy
And grand style dramas played
To dressed coat balconies.
My head is a cathederal cave,
Explored by none but bats and stalagtites,
And darkened echoes that call for me
To strike a match and read scribblings
Of singers and songs, of dances over flame.
I hear this music, but wait …
For stone ochred harmony in the night,
For feeling wind sighing against the walls,
For determined tone through maze of souls.
All resolved in lone-voiced melody, arpeggio blown
Into the nothingness - singular, beautiful, pure.
I am waiting for god’s wistful call.


Joy of Socks.

March 14th, 2005

They, were so happy
layed out on my bed.
Toe to toe, and length
to length. Ribbed ones
pleased, to be with
partners, previously
lost to wash of fate.
Rejoiced in commune
of conditioned skin,
embracing friends and
kin. Now untangled from
the sorry state that they
were in. I watched couples
sort themselves - into
groupings, and those that
shouted, got down with
those, that didn’t care.
Fingering threads, like a
passion blinded creature
fumbling and pawing his
way, I watched this orgy
of togetherness and am
hereby ashamed to say -
that I, joined in.


Clouded Water.

March 11th, 2005

We used
to visit often,
and take a sip
from this cold, clear pool.
But now it tastes different -
like a stilled pond where mudfish play,
where every day they battle and stir the clay
just to cloud the sweetness of our stay.
Maybe we should wait until they settle down,
await return of flow that takes away the earthen taste.
But on the other hand, maybe there are springs
and brooks beyond this place we know so well?
Perhaps we should at least, walk on a bit
and take a look.


Selfish Heart.

March 10th, 2005

I’d prefer to be seated
when you give me the news.
Is that O.K? I know it’s coming,
I’ve seen the signs you see -
the struggled smiles,
the cutting sighs,
the hunch of compromise.
Just so you know,
it wasn’t that I didn’t
care or try, it was more a case
of feeling paralysed.
I knew full well of my neglect -
the wonderful you I did forget
whilst focussed on the wanderful me.
Oh how vain, to think alone like that
not to reckon on a more co-operative life.
To rush ahead ignoring my second heart -
it sang, then spoke, then whispered
but now is quietened by dulled regret.
And yes, this is all my fault and I know,
it’s time to come to terms with you,
who thinks of ending things,
whilst I prefer to sit.


Again…

March 10th, 2005

Staring at this blinking curse,
I don’t much feel like writing tonight.
But still I’m pushed and pulled,
by what is now habitual.
This is a mad obsession,
that has chosen me,
Before, I was ordinary -
not enslaved by this … poetry.
Just one more line, one more thought,
One more punctuated night, to drive
the nagging demons from my mind,
then I can rest in peace - forgetting
poems that are never, quite right.


The Event.

March 7th, 2005

Afterwards.
Breathing more,
tired bones re-aligned
from hunched disposition.
Inside, the curl of change
like snapping chains
and knots untied -
teased threads undone,
winter ribbons
frayed by afterwind.
In knowing
all is even now -
no fractured sleep
or shuddered night
to steal the soul,
pour freedom’s gold
in leaden mould.
Now gone choked days,
and shutter eye nights
forgotten mutterings,
of chipped-cog cries,
all but silenced now.
Through defiant eyes,
stare straight on
past tense, past all -
see your toils spent
in preparation,
for this event.


Wear Me Out.

March 6th, 2005

Stitch me,
like a badge -
line me up like a label
on your sleeve.

Carry me like
mother’s day flowers,
arranged and parading life
and love for all to see.

Let me, cling like dust
to the weave and fold of you,
raised against your thread and hold.
Upon the arms of we.


Remembering.

March 1st, 2005

Just for a moment,
we were young again.
Back below the teenage sheets,
drinking wine from cracked cups,
overflowed with confidence
in awe, of our togetherness.

Just for a moment …
we were unbeatable -
forgetting hours and duty
beholden of ordinary folk.
Intoxicated, like circling moths
chasing torchlight in the dark.

Just for a moment,
we were cradled and held
like old spoons in a drawer,
rattled silvered skins, but bold -
just wanting to stay together,
in love forever where we lay.

And then, we slept.


Secret Identity.

March 1st, 2005

I’m an amazing drunk, but rather average when I’m sober.
For it is only the warming hold of alcohol that makes me feel so bold.
From timid to terrific in a few spirited gulps of secret fuel.
Then, I become strong - able to silence rooms with strange discourse
and amazing tricks with cocktail sticks.
Incredible! Such … courage, such bravery -
all poured from a bottle of ferment.
From start to closing time I’m always first
to fall over on the finish line.
Superpowered - that’s me!
Able to trip kerbstones in a single bound —
‘Look, down in the gutter,’ ‘Is it a rat?’ ‘Is it a drain?’
‘No! it’s … Superdrunk!’ ”

Hell, I can even talk out of my arse
sometimes.


O ‘ Women of a Certain Age.

February 25th, 2005

Bear the ills of weary world,
Know the creep of quiet rage,
Feel the smudge of youth to old,
And smooth the grain of age.
Carry high past ways of youth,
Raise smile-worn weathered flag,
To shoulderhold the uncouth gale,
And navigate the rocky crags.
Know well this turn of time -
Hold each minute like a tiny jewel.
Begin again the spring and wind,
Then win prize of age’s tired duel.


New Born.

February 23rd, 2005

Our joy awoke
and drank
the world in one.
Shared the air
with lungs like
unfurling wings,
sending heartbeat
cries around
the world.
Nestled and rolled,
curling like paper
handmade
by caring souls.
But strong,
like a wild foal
already tall
in utterance
of love.

(For Jared Daniel).


Cosmic Intercourse.

February 16th, 2005

Let us talk
about the stars,
and where we fit within
the vista of being.
In which, we go naked -
skinnydipping existance
diving deep
for miraged pearls
in the sea
of who we are.
Let us close our eyes
and dream
of other things,
of happenstance beyond
the dull thud,
the daily numb
of common ways.
Let us meditate
on awakening.
Let us reel-in
the swirling cosmos,
hold its beauty
like snowdust
in our hands,
raise the soma
of life itself
to our lips,
and whisper.
Let us …
understand.


Template.

February 15th, 2005

Somewhere,
there is a template.
A way of doing,
tested and tried,
laid out neatly
for people like us.
A blueprint showing
how to tackle situations
and tricky circumstance
thrown in our way.
There must be an overlay.
Mappped against the day -
scribbled with marks,
showing at least
the edges or the corners
pointing out measurements
of the challenges we face.
But, where is this process?
Where is this mislaid key
prising the locks
of confusion,
and knowing
our next
mistake?

Ask your friends,
maybe they will know.


The Hero Moon.

February 14th, 2005

Is he a man?
Or is he a figment?
Like the glint in a raindrop falling
from the lost tail of a speeding satellite?
He soars - acres high, up, above crown of land
like a proud beekeeper ushering safe return
of eve-time honey dance in costumed night.
Us, lost in starmist now beaconed through
to dusk-smudged earth below his subtle touch
that reaches dust, of mortal ground.
Is he a man? A spirit? A dream?
Who knows this truth but he,
who has power to roll tides,
to move minds of lunatic or child.
Even calm midnight doubt of poets
holding shadows back to see his glow
that steals away the clumsy thump of fate.
This hero’s light! It illuminates,
it shows us footholds in the night.
He is all, to all that seek
to know.


Temperance and Care.

February 11th, 2005

Away palid sirens
And playground harpies
That tease and clutch
Your unworn soul.
Begone such cruel bringers
Of growth’s nag and poke
And innocence ground
In circumstance beyond.
Forget their shrill voiced
Cries and winsome pangs
And crack’d tears -
And shudderings of age.
Be strong, my quiet one
Though humble and bruised
Still, like a first fallen pear
Brave in dawn-lost day.
You give wind to us
Amidst doubter’s lull
Becalmed by spite
But pushed along.


Auber.

February 7th, 2005

He liked aubergines.
Not just for the taste -
but also for their look and shape
like silk bells stroked by moonlight
in extacious growth.
He loved their colour too
like the edges of neon in rain
or passion in the summer dusk.
Curved like a marble womb
in the palm of his hand.
Yes, he liked aubergines,
and so do I.


I Get This Feeling.

February 7th, 2005

Like distant slide
from crown of mountain slip
into very pit of who I am.
Here is vertigo for cliff-edged
hearts like yours that tip-toe
ankle winds.

There,
clutching gravity’s stall
of bloodstream rush,
like freshwater dashed in magnet dance
you move as particles
swirling toward the iron lips
of polar sea.

Through permafrost
and frozen root, gulley cut
and porous bed - the centre
to the core, traveling deep
within sediment soul,
and onto icepools
that only you
can thaw.


Seabones.

February 4th, 2005

I crave soft-armed
cradle of you, holding
us dispersed on froth
of season’s roll.
You know so well
how to raise our
stopdrift souls,
lift eyes above
the cold horizon.
Like a puppeteer
placing strings -
upon his things,
with twist of wire
and raise of armiture.
Us; the shorebound
scarred and dry.
Tattered fabric
jellyfish marooned
at the bottom
of a box festooned
and waiting,
for a show
of tide.


Hitcher’s Tale.

February 3rd, 2005

I got in the car,

and he said to me;

“Do you believe in infinity?”

We headed off as he grinned in glee,

and drove a thousand miles per hour

down a one-way street.


Automatic.

February 2nd, 2005

Sometimes,
my body is distinct from my mind.
Like a distant robot operating
on boot sector instinct.
There I am, stretching for a drink,
but thinking not of reach or grip
just seeing glass and wine.
Or then, I’m keying the lock
but thinking of home inside
not oiled parts and traffic grime.

Odd that.


Yesterday Tomorrow.

February 1st, 2005

Time is the leak you cannot fix
Seeping over meniscus edge
Like muddied ice in stubborn push
Slowly notching marks of us.
Plucked like frets and string
Scratch-scretched and resonating
As waves that flow through sky
In search for sands of you and I.
Shorter than a newborn’s thumb
Curled and clutched like tiger frond
Mewed to world and catching dew
Time falls slow on me and you.


Transmission.

January 31st, 2005

Where are you chickjesus?
Not washed away I hope
by flood of life
and death like dust
on surly breath
over unkind seas.
You once awakened me,
turned driftwood
into useful thoughts
took clay of you and I
and sculpted we.
I hope for you
in the swell
of the cosmos -
are you still looking
for butterfly wings
on the shore?


Waiting.

January 28th, 2005

The sky is taunting us
Spreading its muddy fleece
Smothering the shoots and spurs
That call to sun.
One minute overjoyed
In the glow of spring
But then, snatched -
Like a mistaken banquet guest.
Why, oh why
this grinding pause?
This reckoning of season sums
Beyond patient warm and blue
Greying the clarity of hue -
Our cravings for rebirthed sun
Like cries from fallen souls
With weathered flags and so much need.
So much wanting, so much desire.
All, waiting to start again.


Thorn.

January 28th, 2005

Begone
this stab through skin
and blood towed heart.
This nagging spike of doubt
that strikes and cracks
the gentle well.

It screeches
like cocktail spite
through quiet now unsteady calm,
Scratching edges, stealing entrance
to the wonderful secrets
that are you.


One Eyed King.

January 27th, 2005

One good eye
Is better than the other
He sees much more
Than the lazy one.

One good eye
Works harder than his brother
Not seeing glint
Beyond the squint
of sun.

One good eye
Gazing further,
Sees futures played
Not tired man I know.

One good eye, and I
A friend allied -
Scribbling details
Of his battle not yet won.


Beware of Engines.

January 25th, 2005

Beware of engines,
Say the men of oil and dust
Working for their fathers,
Sons, before a heritage of trust.

Speaking heat and night of foundry bed,
Telling black and white of early call,
Cathedral spired beyond the fires -
Raising chalice cast from iron trust.

To worshiped stitch of boilerplate
To lathe contented steel - not men,
All bowed before a final wailed hoot -
Not thinking of their labour lost
Or industry not yet turned to rust.


Leap.

January 19th, 2005

Tell me how
to make the leap,
the hop from here
to where I want to be.
Show me how
to arc my thoughts
to someplace
new.

Help me
scale the hurdles,
jump the fences,
cut the bindings -
banish gravity!
And I promise,
I’ll move closer
to the island
that is
you.


Scared of Water.

January 17th, 2005

I was thinking about you
All your things in readiness
Held in a drawstring bag
Clutched like pearl and trove
in netted treasure sack.
You, looking so … little
And scared in the blue
Of losing cool and shine
Of forgetting who you are
At the mercy of cold hands
Lying passive and waiting -
How like a fish jumped
Into strange waters!
Minutes rising, countdown’s pull,
Of meeting bloodied dark
Of growing fate through stir
And current that tugs and calls
Like black queen crawfish
Moving in a mystery game.
How cruel such creatures are
That make me think of you,
Sifting the night sounds
Tossing and turning but not moving
Stilled beneath cutting sheets
Of ripple click and midnight tuck
Of care that feels like harm,
Pin-dropped cold in the pool
And drifting, where no-one knows.
But yet, I think of you
And time rushes as if water
Flowing free the crusted hold
A return to whom you know
In joy of being - of belonging
Back to friendship’s spoils
And the untethered laughter
Of good times swirling endlessly
Like unhooked river trout
Playing in whitewater smile.
I was thinking about you, and know
You will race the stream again.


Hush.

January 15th, 2005

This one’s for the quiet ones,
The ones who sit and wait -
The people learning at the back
Depended on to take the slack.
This one’s for the mild souls,
The some who stir no waves -
The some preferring calm
To seas that fool the brave.
To your reticent heart, to you
That softly speaks - now go prideful
In your hushed and gentle ways,
This one’s for the quiet ones
And the treasures patience pays.


Voice.

January 14th, 2005

Finally we find more than words
And they sing like wineglass bells
Beneath the cold stoke of night
That calls our circumvented soul
Deep as moss, high as swallow call
Like wistful sighs in the steamroom
Or a child’s lonely cry in the mall
Buoyed against our wanderings
More than tone, more than sound
Your voice alone was waiting
With such wisdom to be heard.


Plastic Mantra.

January 12th, 2005

Goddamn freaks!
What gives them the right
to be more enlightened than me?
I’ve paid my dues to humble servitude
and non-dyed collar platitudes.
Their cheesecloth talk and cosmic hop
is mere thrift sale Buddhist eclectic fop.
Arrrrrgh! Such positivism drives me crazy!
Through bleary nights and an empty glass
That’s where you’ll find the promised way
From bar-stool muse to sucker fool blues
In one queasy step - right foot tripping left
Through the urinated alley that is life.
It IS easy - just stumble over here,
and buy another beer.


Before the Climb.

January 12th, 2005

Please know that yours is not a lost cause.
You will sidestep these horrid, barren gulleys
These concerns ascending though purity’s tears
From here, you will climb still further
Up, through the mist toward sky’s veil
Where some have fallen, and some have paused
Amongst stalagmites chiselled by unkind wind
You will smile at ancient lichen etched in quartz
You will face cold stone’s grimace and find anchor
Beyond knowing and the known, beyond today
Beyond tomorrow and life’s tremulous hold.
There is always the memory of you.


Functional.

January 10th, 2005

Just a quickie,
nothing meaningful.
Us, mutually together
for a moment or two.
Just you and I, sharing
the company of words,
but craving more than
a one line stand.


Please Reboot.

January 10th, 2005

Wiring crossed and timing slow
Confused and dumb with protocols
Of socketblocks and battery slack
One inch forward - ten feet back.
An odd-sock day of coffee stains
And soapy eyes and missing calls
From breakfast spills on muddy shoes
To milk that turns through needled toes.
A scrabble round for peace of mind
From late return of bills unpaid
To black night search for blue-ink books
And here now lost in overflow
Running, from my worried looks.


Nothing.

January 5th, 2005

Nothing here is real,
And nothing is revealed,
For the stirrings that you feel,
are just secrets you conceal.
And nothing here is true,
For the foibles that were you
Became the missing clues,
In the puzzle we both knew.
Nothing more is nothing less
than nothing said.


Spinning.

January 4th, 2005

They say the earth is shrinking.
Like a loose stitched spinning ball
Thrown from backyard stretch to garden hold
Over fence and border row
Through trees and wind and sky
Even across mountains and sea
And there is you, shouting for the catch
Then me, aiming my baggy-limbed throw
And both of us - clutching the cusp
Of the world, spiralling between
The dust on which we shuffle
And our yearning arms.


Hammer’s Call.

December 29th, 2004

The water cries
Through bloated hands
Outstretched to catch
The slamming doors
That one by one
Undo their hold.
They, the nailed souls
Pummelled and bent
Now held below
Like corroded pins
In ocean’s spill
Bleached and sunk
And stilled in fall.
Waiting for the hammer
and its weary call.


Hail the Strange Ones.

December 22nd, 2004

Poets are weirdos.
They can’t help it, they just are.
Not for them the bravura strange
Of painters, or stucco bloom
Of eccentric musicians.
Poets are just plain …odd.
Look at them - shuffling thoughts
On scribbled worry scraps
Memento pointing treasure maps
Of found ideas on midnight notes
Squirreled safely away like eels
In the pockets of a hobo.

And then, they speak!


Don’t Resist.

December 21st, 2004

I must admit
to an obsession.
24 feels like 72 without you.
You are illuminated gold
for unkempt souls like I.

I’m here, every night.
Hunched like a fortress archer
stooping down to spy
on the blinking hearts
that stumble by.

You are skeleton wish-skin,
like crisp white parchment
blown through the stillness
of damp alleyways waiting
for elegant replies.

I don’t wish to tear
the twin suede binds you bring;
habit and urge - the addictions
you have become. I love you,
in another guise.


P r e t t y .

December 20th, 2004

Fix sequined hearts
to outstretched firs,
and spotlight’s catch
on needle arms.
Hang foiled smiles
then bury them
in green of dawn and wait
for gold-noosed days.
Come sparklesnakes
and silvered dew
and chocolate
in the mornings.
This time of year,
this very night,
this very moment -
let us decorate
the trees!


Breeched.

December 18th, 2004

I am smiling

like an upturned boat

flipped over by the sea of you,

suddenly caught on the turn.

I let go the sail and hold

nothing more than memories,

for you are the ocean on which I drift,

now surrendered to moontide’s pull

and salt-kissed wandering.

Where are you taking me?


Conversation.

December 18th, 2004

We listen
The trees urge us to
For noise in the noise
For voices crying out
And solitary melodies
Resting on their hanging limbs
Resting in their bellied boughs
Resting at the roots of the hill.
Sounds of tumbling leaves
On temple stone and sandcastles
And avatars and StumbleBlogs
Changing the space around us
All for contentment’s sake.
The only thing time gives;
To build, to create, to generate -
The singers not the song
Bringing hope when we listen
In this flooded wood.


Songbird.

December 15th, 2004

There is one,
in the many sweet voiced souls.
Singing proud like a joyous bell
amid the peel of fluted tones
through cherried cheeks
and beauty’s song.
She is mine, and I am proud
of her, dancing beyond the crowd -
a voice apart of lilting gild
that brushes single tear’s fall
upon this love that hides
within my melting heart.


Download.

December 13th, 2004

I’m your hot-fix #1
Moving round the world
From point to point
And peer to peer
From here to there
Through protocols
Of packet ping
And patch plug-ins
From screen to screen
And transfering
Extensions to our
progress tracking
Completion pending.
Just don’t stop!
Click me again!
Oh click me good.


Ether.

December 12th, 2004

We are
velvet shadows
dusk plumed
tides of light
like star-torn
wandering chase
from wind sent
moonsong sighs,
sensing call
of crescent arms
through weave
of you and I.
Skyward,
like laughter -
young nightbirds
in veiled flight
like hopeful seeds
to the breeze.
Oh we are ghosts
tonight.


Supine Way.

December 12th, 2004

Saltbed
shadows slow
behind time
behind me
behind you.

Softslew
seeds sow
beyond mine
beyond we
beyond soon.

Smoothtone
somnolent show
before rhyme
before sea
before moon.

Stonewalled
serpents
suppose.


Brian Wilson.

December 1st, 2004

I believe in Brian Wilson
and the beauty of melancholia
and the things going on
between the notes.
There’s a conduit
we can’t quite hold
the sound of us
growing old.
So yeah,
I believe.


Sporting Chance.

December 1st, 2004

All he wants is
a sporting chance
for him to do
the big boy dance
the slippery pass
from youth to man
the yards to catch
and moves to plan
all markers that
he needs to pass,
beyond his awkward
backfield glance.


(rem)Ember.

November 30th, 2004

Now,
she glows.
Like a half-closed eye
soil blacked and dust edged,
cupped in the bowl of my palm.
Like the chalky rhodolite glow
of apache tears in the moonlight;
Warm, not burning - just
comfortably luminescent,
remembering the flame.
I watch her noble stand
against my fuel-less hand
and whistle breeze
to kindle thoughts,
of how we
used to
be.


Only One.

November 29th, 2004

I am pillow bound
to cradle hold
and rest my head
on crumbled ground.

I am willow sound
in river fold
and test my dread
of humble gold.

I am shallows found
in winter’s cold
bad times ahead -
a thousandfold.


Beat Above.

November 29th, 2004

Here’s to the Moon!
White skin stretched
and surface tuned
like a drum waiting
for rhythmic palms
and curious eyes.
Just look up
and play!


Mountain Rivals.

November 29th, 2004

The Buddha and the Banjo
stand at the foot of a hill
and Banjo says; “I’ll race you” -
so Buddha nods; “You will”
With this the banjo frails
some pattern rolls into the air -
racing Buddha’s wind to mountain top
when he is already there.


Tired.

November 25th, 2004

Hello blue screen friend
Facing me beyond the glass
With eyes like tent peg holes
Hammered but not holding
The molten spent-wax bowls
Capturing final glow of
Night and time deferred
Poised like patient ornaments
That stare into the firmament
And wait for shooting stars
But sleep before they come.


Mystery Play.

November 23rd, 2004

What goes on in Party Room #1?
Up the three-tiered powder coated stairs
Above the standard frippery
Young mums know of attended fun
And tight banister climb to high-window
Ledged behind the plastic green.
Just take your shoe code -
And present it at the door.


Stonepoem’s Mash.

November 22nd, 2004

Fresh
mashed
potatoes
with cream
and black
pepper
plus a hint
of chopped
garlic -
built
into a
hill-like
mound then
sprinkled
lavishly with
crushed hazlenuts
or pistachios
and copious cubes
of dolcellata cheese
(any blue will do).
Baked until crusty gold.
and ideally served
with tender Salmon
and sweet chutney -
following a
marijuana
starter .


Airport-3am.

November 21st, 2004

There, he walks,
towards night polished floors
and fluorescent halls
with open cradled hands
waiting for something more.
His restless sauntering,
from pine-tree car to neon door,
clasped by shocked moon air
through nostrils clipped
like moth-winged frost
and cigarettes.
No-one sees anyone here,
that’s why he comes.
For here is calmed
by nothing more than
pale coffee spills
and empty echo calls -
no distracted solitaire
in this abandoned whale hall.
There is just enough to see
but not enough to hear,
of white noise elevated
above daylight residues
in silent bench and bell.
And now he sits quietly,
like an actor ruminating
over a difficult audition -
re-running all the things
that should be said.
Bottom floor - lowest level,
baggage claim - thinking…
among the reverbed booths.
His question spot -
where confusions disappear,
beyond polite knowing glance
and hollow announcements.
Beyond the awkward entourage
of worry and complication.
Here, just him and the night staff,
invaluable backstage helpers all
moving the props in readiness
for tomorrow.


Unspoken.

November 21st, 2004

How many words are there
Hiding behind the trees
Lying on dampened clay
Like pieces of fallen sky
Downed amongst the leaves.
Who feigns to voice
Our once danced swallow call
Now earthly staged before the night?
Who notes these patterns bound
By silvered threads of awakening
Unpicked in meanings found?
And now, the warm caress of … this
Our fumbled hold in nature’s furl
With passioned gulps of lover’s dew -
Overflowing, with everything
I need to say to you.


Shared Ground.

November 20th, 2004

We cling
to the wreck
of our respect
both scared
to venture beyond
the broken island
on which we stand.
Steady, but churlish
on the currents
like tiny splinters
in gulley hold
of waited roar
and waves compelled
to driftwood claim.
Us, craving foothold
on the fading shore.


15 mins.

November 17th, 2004

Fifteen
minutes
and counting
That’s all
I’ve got
But don’t watch
the clock
I am tapping
on these keys
waiting
for some thoughts
to come to me
But now ten mintes
is all I have
that’s less
than I had
before
Where did
the minutes go?
Oops - now it’s
down to eight
and they’ve
gone again
Thing is,
I can’t be late
or make
people wait
Whilst I’m on seven
then I should
perhaps surmise
or offer
finishing lines
maybe
then wisely save
the final five
for edItIng
and cut ‘n’ paste.
Who knows?
There’s three to go
and now I’m
feeling low
Have I said
anything of note?
Have I spoken
to you?
Too late!
I’ve stopped
tapping on the keys
Waiting for thoughts
to come to me.


Weird Times.

November 16th, 2004

I am seeing less,
but more than Summer’s tired flare
On litmus sky above tapered mound
and rough-torn tissue paper hill.
I fall below the errant wind,
under etched-mist tears big as Oaks
that sense call rippled nature’s bell
and threaded cloud in wonder’s curl.
I feel something growing in this land
See it glow with change and knowing -
It is a time of flow and rise.
These sudden sparks of joy
are freaking me.


Foal.

November 15th, 2004

Young for five minutes.

How do you know

how to stand?

Unsteady feat.

What do you know

of the land?

Calmed for us.

How can we begin

to understand?


Shake.

November 13th, 2004

Shuffled
On the gold-pan
River swelled
Beyond the bank
The glint of you
Remains unseen
Beneath the gravel
Shunted frame
All but watertwist
Flow of silt caress
And soft motion firm
On change’s ground
Brightest sparkle
In the vortex swirl
Our shaken joy
Of quivered hold
Against the pull.


Dreamwalker.

November 11th, 2004

Step across the Sleepscape
Travel sandman’s track of night
Raise a torch above the walkways
So I may see the light.
Jump the dreampulse arc between us
Ride the curl of torpor’s tail
For you are moonlight’s pillowed muse
In the dreams that you ignite.


Centrifuge.

November 9th, 2004

Meanwhile,
the world spins
and strange string
pulls the gyroscope
on arms of time.
Hard truth rolls
this drawn arch bow
rounding glass spine
compass reel.
Above the poles
like clunky kids
on dusty fairground ride
skipping caller’s dance
of push-tin picadors
and broken wheels.
May you always glide
circling in blithe orbit,
grasping slipstream
haloed bracelet sky -
defying grace’s fall.


Strange Hotel.

November 4th, 2004

Upstairs, downstairs, everywhere
Name calling ladies with cherry turned smiles
Soothing the nervous, feeding trolley clatter rolled
Adjusting the clocks that see and know.
Now in muted wait, for the bedded and begowned
White faced examined in skipped partner glance
All made do and mended in vertigo truths
When a room’s laughter turns.
Notice the polite camaraderie?
Breezing through anodyne corridors -
Redolent - like a dusky walk gone cold
A blank page turns in a musty magazine
Like the hoping shuffle of the fearful,
Towards the tip-toes of the well
Here, there’s no checking in
- just trolley spin.
I hate this
strange
hotel.


Nearly Out of Breath.

November 4th, 2004

There must be more than dust
and footprints marking chalkfoot climb.
Onto bent leaf trail and belly of hills
who views the haloes of seeds you plant,
who knows their downwind bloom?

You have grown along the way
soil scratched and tilled with mannered care,
stamped contoured paths for those not near
the remembered first stepped falls
of youth alone that dare not yield.

So pause to raise a harvest high,
hold up trophies found for all to spy -
be prideful in what your shoulders bear
then turn, towards the rise
where you head now.


Fishes.

October 31st, 2004

With kindly arms, layered in cold
a child scatters bread across water folds.
His arch of energy watched skirmishly
through broken reed-bed end of summer’s hold.
He knows; here they lie, the open-mouthed
battle weary hopes that ache for different tales,
meniscus stirred by ripples in the distant manifold.

To be the first to gather from happenstance
to forget the dragging ballast of concern,
to be ahead in the race to grow untethered.
This is what is craved a thousandfold.

From a distance, the amused child looks on
enjoying the animated turbulence,
thrilled with these ripples of influence.
Watching, wanting, willing -
inquisitive in his scatter.
He urges on this swim of souls
and sees the weakest being bold.


Steeple’s Fall

October 28th, 2004

I am just
a plain being.
Not equipped
for complication,
carving driftwood thoughts
not swords for battle cry.
Yet still I sense
the driving spurs
and quickening urged -
the gilded goads,
of knowing
you.


Uncle John

October 27th, 2004

Sore thumbs
devoutly uncool
otherwise voiceless
radio ghost.
Who else
melts the years?
Ordinary bloke
voice of a lifetime
touchstoned
sound champion.
33 at 45rpm,
fluid grace and hope
for grumpy old.
I will miss you,
Uncle John.


(Dedicated to John Peel)


Tomorrow

October 26th, 2004

I’m gonna do it.
This thing I’ve been diverting from.
No more sidestepping the situation
Or jumping desert sweat on hotplate rock
Or leaving fly-spun fruit in crusted brook.
This has simmered away in hope, for long enough.
Like pressured steam from the very vent of me -
Excuses, promises, commitment - all lost in the boil
The condensed atoms of ‘if’ and ‘but’ -
Like rolling mist, clinging,
To a mountainside.


Containment

October 25th, 2004

We sleep and live in boxes,
drive to work in cubes on wheels
then we settle in our cubicles
and stare at cornered squares.

THIS space is not contained.


Service Announcement

October 25th, 2004

This is temporary
of little consequence
a small thing
minor in relevance
a stop-gap thought.
Inconsequential,
indeterminate,
unimportant.
Please ignore.


Words Fail Me

October 25th, 2004

My meltwax grin is all
I have to share tonight
about the situation I am in.
Me, leaning forward - shrugging
in gallow grimace hold,
before the tightened fate
of our humanity.

I know too well,
this scaffold smile, holding
optimism’s flame up high.
A fading beacon in the gloom,
like dusk kite in the crow of night,
or slowing twist of last leaf fall.
This is all I want to say.


Dominos

October 21st, 2004

These
      are
           the
                many
                     standing
                           parallel
                                    like
                                snakepine
                              bones
                           or
                        druid
                      stones
                       in
                         landslip
                                 line
                                    these
                                             are
                                                   the
                                                  sleepers
                                                      laid
                                                with
                                          fingers
                                    like
                              matchstick
                        burns
                  and
            dry-clench
                  knots
           in
      twisted
twine
      these
            are
                  they
                          that
                               mark
                                    the
                                          complex
                                                track
                                                   that
                                                   shape
                                                   the
                                               pensive
                                            oxbow
                                         slack
                                    so
                              stand
                           and
                            contemplate
                               the
                                    end
                                       so
                                         push
                                       away
                                         the
                                            first
                                                 to
                                                   learn;
                                                 there
                                            are
                                         many
                                             many
                                                 folds
                                                      to
                                                               you
                                                               and
                                                               I. 

Justice.

October 20th, 2004

This is where
I set the record straight.
Where the ills or innocents of the day
get just desserts in front of you - the judge and jury.
Line up your forfeiture of events and thoughts,
Unpick the complex truths of what and whom you see.
Examine the motives that lead us here.
For you, are the studied voice of reason,
that prosecutes, yet defends
and speaks for the accused.

I am poetic.


Rare Essence.

October 18th, 2004

Remember how it smells?
See the beauty that is becomed?
Feel the snapback and know this;
You are awakening.


Coal-eyed Friend.

October 18th, 2004

Who sends this black cat
now crossing my ankles?
Dancing over toes,
see-sawing my shins,
like a skittish autumn leaf
circling the root of me.
It brings strange energies -
dark-spirals of attention.
This purring transduction,
making me wonder.

Is it you?
In another form?
What do you want?


Barcode Rocker.

October 18th, 2004

There’s a rocker in the supermart
buying beans and budget ham.
Judging standard over premium,
counting measures, in the cans.
Cool dude, in the freezer row
basking in the frosted glow.
Checking chilled goods’ turn
of sell-by date - and bargains
in the dry ice snow.

He’s queuing with the rest of us,
no adulation in the aisles.
No signs up on the shopfloor plan,
No icons for his style.
Did you see him do the kitchen roll?
Know his genius at the salad bar?
Feel the presence of a superstar
choosing tuna over caviar?

Look, there he is -
waving coupons! Pinching pence,
from our ordinary circumstance.
And there! He signs an autograph,
smiling - grooving, riffing.
A Rockstar, in the checkout jam.


Tangles

October 18th, 2004

Once, there was a boy
with knotted hands,
unpicking twisted fishing line,
trying not to hear his father’s sigh.
Hard for him to figure out
the pattern in the tangle,
scunched-up in disbelief
in the puzzle weave.

Next, he was a youth,
stood no longer on the bank,
sorting awkward circumstance
and learning how to dance,
with stumbling feet against the laughs,
self-concious twist of age.
So tough, to follow steps involved,
the right and left of teenage told.

Then he became a man,
with laid out blueprint plans,
tracing wires to broken lights,
fumblimg grasps before the night.
Lumpen on the needlewire
with darkness rushing him,
dropping all in race to fix,
an urgent flame to candlesticks.

Now he is old.
Balancing on memories,
pinching out the kinks and fray
from threads to binding final days.
Static limbs to sort of pins,
unpicking matted ball of who is -
trying to unravel the reasons why,
now he understands his father’s sigh.


Blank.

October 18th, 2004

Today, I curse my dead-leg soul.
Like a flatlined heart - no spike
or charge to spur me on.
Nothing here but vacant signs
and sombre stares in morning rise.
Like clipboard foolscap waiting
for scrawl from a pen without ink.
Oh damn this weary me!
I feel so numb - so empty,
I feel so …


Crop.

October 11th, 2004

May your god walk with you
as you step through truth unknown
with outstretched arms that mark the hours
towards the growth along your way.
A choice of faith, of credo hewed -
grown from seed that you alone have sown,
the seasoned fruit you now devour,
strong-rooted deep in cold loam and clay.
See the branches growing tall and true?
Parade their fertile climb above the stones,
show your harvest and its wondrous power,
to those who reap not beauty from the day.


Why Write About The Sky?

October 10th, 2004

All know
blue ivory cover,
and veined ghosts
of storm and rain.
And blood rush wind
conducting orchestras
of leaves, like thread
from endless tapestry.
All towards the slow pulse
glow of every turning moon -
the very things we see
and share.


Sleeptalker.

October 7th, 2004

Torn between
the spirit and the day -
the nightime thought
that stays with me.
Tugged, like
a weary christmas ritual,
still wise and rugged
though - like the last
clear glass on
a scratched bauble.
Where goes this twilight
sort of ponderosity?

In a tiny instant
before sleep,
before dreams
before black;
It is … divine.


You Can. . .

October 6th, 2004

Ride the wind,
above tip toe ice
below a snowblind sun.

Quieten the roar
of pin drops
in the waterfall.

Whistle on flames
of lava mound
then, drink the rain.

You are fearless.


Unexploded.

October 4th, 2004

When we found the bomb, it was rusted.
like an abandoned mower fallen down,
rotting amonsgt the roots and moss
a grey backed breakfast for worms
and insect insignias barely visible.
Under the lost brown over-run
of its shattered iron case.

I think it was you who first tripped
over this blunt cutter of men
lying for years unknown
in the peaceful forest green.
It was size of two strong arms -
reaching out to us through
the softbed verdant floor.

Before, we were young boys -
bored of the gravel track, wanting
wild trees and Action Men
and McQueen punched jaws -
anything but clipped old man’s roads.
Then, Dad told us; “Go on! Run off!
Find something really exciting to do!”

That’s exactly what we did.


Nocturne.

October 4th, 2004

I remember,
the Vetiver night -
all pillow scented
innocence
and star-fueled lust
of youth.

We, as lovers
sharing delighted air
deep, below
the honeyed ocean thrall
in flow and pull,
of sense’s haul.

Tuned high
like piccolo snares
in the grand pre-amble
of life - before
the musty quiet
theatre bow.

You and me,
velvet fleshed,
brushing the skin
of our very being
against the inner folds
of who we were, and are.

Endless,
Complex,
Compelling.

I looked into your eyes
and saw it all.


Strange Parcel.

September 30th, 2004

Man,
I’m still
on broken shells
waiting for a signal
to open up the box.
Hoping, for something
that says; “It is OK -
now I understand.
it was vain to think
the world is just for me”
But all I hear is tiny
cocoon wails from a spoilt
toyless child within
the soggy wool old news.
Scrunched, but wanting,
I’m trying hard - not to tear
the bubble wrap of scratch inside.
Pulling fist and knot of everything,
to nail some loose tape slack.
But what I get is blunted,
tweezered looks - that never help.
Then I realise. Indignant,
scornful tools are not
enough.


Meeting Place.

September 28th, 2004

At night, in the pear orchard -
that’s where I will swoon and roll,
warmed as a firefly - like an ember
blown beyond this life I know.
So high, the guilded memory moon
that glows as if a silvered hole,
through which my wantings rise
then fall, as I am kissed
by dusk and dustlight call.
In time, I’ll mingle with the starlost
leap unbound, in sweet-seed air.
But now, I’ll seek the honest breeze -
and fall in love with tumbling midnight
leaves, like scattered souls.


Entwined.

September 28th, 2004

String controls

the puppeteer

pulled as he

walks to lean.

Fate dangles

a pulley cord,

to the choices

of a king.


Question.

September 27th, 2004

Born under greendown farmer’s scar,
but now amongst the pinched ones -
a child of earth to man-made stone
is walking through the grey.

In cities armour, there we are
pedestrian stiff-coat bones.
Sometimes, no mirth
for what we have become,
or knowledge dare not known,
the emptiness we help to hone.

O’ child of grass-seed skies
when will you help us seek,
to gaze renewed - in curiousity,
in splendour of wonder’s
perfect way?


Close-up

September 26th, 2004

You are not quite
as I’d imagined -
more … tenacious,
and defined.
Noble boned,
and crafted -
in the cliff-edged
haul of everything.
Steel eyed too,
like a motherbird
on guard - guessing
tomorrow’s wind.
But you too look
weary of being wary.
Let me reassure you;
of the many waves
claiming the shore,
or of the winds
against the plume,
I am only one.


Nightlight Wind

September 23rd, 2004

You want something. Faster, more lucid -
real moments that are sharp, not blurred.
The slippage of mortality is rushing you,
like wind to a candleflame at the start
of its final gleam and flicker.


We Transcend

September 23rd, 2004

Don’t blink or shiver, but I am with you now.
Right at this moment - beamed through the wires,
soft-breathing across the bones of you.
Relax, feel my curious spirit near - go on!
Concentrate; let your shoulders fall
and the worries roll - be conscious of
the tensions sloping down.
Here, let me help. I’m raising my arms,
waving spectral palms your way,
circling with unseen fingertips -
willing you on as you read,
sensing the electricity and flow
of who you really are,
and want to be.


Her Poem

September 21st, 2004

Oh, she is the damnation of me.
Letting me taste from the cup,
but taking it away before I sip.
I am just a blind man crashing
through the glass factory of her,
opening box after box, but never
finding the cold-lipped chalice.
She pulls from me. Like a yacht
on a windless day, hauled across beach
by the angry parent of a sulky child.
I am trying to finish a jigsaw; peeling
edges not quite straight and middle gone.
Why did she take the missing piece?


Waiting

September 21st, 2004

Balanced on cotton thread
with arms aloft - struggling
to catch each word
wishing for the night-latched birds
of tissue bed and sleeping soft,
and back to life normality.

She says;
“Come, fly to me”.


Hello

September 20th, 2004

I am a poem.
Not as complicated
as perhaps I like to think,
but maybe a bit confused.
There’s a contradiction
between who I am
and who I want to be.


3 x 3 x 3

September 20th, 2004

Me, so proud
of your fortitude
despite the pain.

You, grown up
beyond your years
strong with hope.

Let me help
with all these
nasty horrid things.


Kiss and Tell

September 19th, 2004

It is nearly time
for green to graphite grey,
from summer’s baton pass
to wet edged days and shadow snatch.
The last gasp vivid glow,
a final flare from nature’s lamps -
the scurry from the light of day,
to autumn’s tired call.

Gone now strokes of sun,
and arms of hope upon our backs -
warming the glue of us.
Steel clouds are on their way,
dulling stars and scent of meadow
in midnight now we dread,
smudging slush of rain soaked sky.

Smell the damp mortar return,
feel your very fibres change,
fear the crisp night wind
sucking though the frame,
and know - this is the first kiss
and tell of winter’s wail.


All Hail the BrokenBound

September 15th, 2004

Here’s to the sons and daughters of the black crow quill,
with their moon soaked scrawls that never still.
I adore these scratched iterators of positive intent
moving through scribbled situations,
calming worries mere mortals
must ferment.
If life is trite - an open book,
all crooked texts and ink splat truths,
then these souls of word illuminate
the stilted ways in which,
we often look.


Huckster

September 14th, 2004

Are you truly a fool?

Or just prodding,
the ant-heap of argument
for the sake of it?

Why do you enjoy watching
your up-ended antagonisms
falling out?

For sure, you stoke
the steam of despise and spoil,
but where you go - ego flags.

What is the point of you?
Your tools are blunt, but
they won’t cut through my paper.

Well, I’ve clicked my heels
and I know.

You are nothing more
than a tiny grey grotesque
pulling the easy levers behind
the fake wizard grimace of
an intimidating mask.


Back Through the Memory Hole

September 14th, 2004

In the unlit tunnel of your thoughts;
stuffed to the joists with memories,
piled high like mildewed dominoes
or musty blankets under the stairs.
Buckled buttresses struggle, like
tangled roots in cracked terracotta,
bulging from the squeeze and huff
of loose unlabelled circumstance.

You used to dutifully lay down
this priceless cargo of recollection -
comfort-stacking against the wall
the dusty happenings within your life.
Now, shoved-in - no weave or industry;
life payloads crushed and buckled,
shapeshifted by the pressure shove.
Torn by the strongarm pull of age


Answer

September 9th, 2004

Listen!
You are too young to touch the stars.
They’ve been put beyond our reach
to keep them clean from naive grasp.
Tissue origami in the space wind
should never be unfolded.


Viewpoint

September 9th, 2004

Near one foot on Wiseman’s Bridge
the bosky dance of trees to teal sea.
shot-slewed on the grey incline
down toward the quartzite bed.
Joyful, feeling the soft tongued
ardent lick of bridled sun,
running down the scallop edge
of the valley, but still seeing -
all through crossthread eye.


One of My Friends is Me

September 8th, 2004

My friend.
We’ve known each other
for as long as I can remember.
Like wheels on a bicycle,
one powering - the other, steering.
Dodging the rockish flip and flop
that life sometimes hurls upon the road.
Since early on; laughing, crying and muddling.
Through the rambling mechanism of it all,
laughing with - not at. Crying alongside,
not because of. I’ll recall us always cheering,
our steps together aside the rut and tangle of life.
Then, there is your awkward, morning grin!
Watching the scrape of my sleepy eyes;
squeezing toothpaste onto the day’s brush -
whispering sound advice, reminding me not to mumble,
making sure, I finish all my … sentences.
And now, there is someone waving a finishing flag,
I look for you to see it too. But where is that grin?
Where is the swagger of the only one who holds me up
when I have no right to stand? Where are you my friend?
Show me again! Unfurl my confidence - offer your calm surety,
help me once more to grasp the way of things.


Stoner in the Ball Pool

September 7th, 2004

“Are you a Hendrix man?”

…says the young stoner,
pony-tailing the ball pool,
guarding his voodoo chiles
with an alabaster grin.

Through the rope fence,
he ducks behind painted
door to turn his music up
and, er, change the mood.

We are different he and I.
But kin, like ying and yang,
tapping out Jimi rhythms,
grooving secretly among
the sandwiched families.

My kind of theme park.


The Boy Who Swam

September 7th, 2004

Who was he trying to impress?
The splash of him certainly announced some intent
but the tortuous to and fro of his flailing arms
and the stuttered line of his path worried me.
Out beyond the others, on the tip-toes of youth
but lonely in the trawl. Why did he swim,
so recklessly?


Saltrock

September 6th, 2004

A little girl sobs on the beach,
tears as inevitable as falling waves
whimpering, down the folded dune
of her soaked opal face - her treasure
lost and rolled in with the multitude.
Into the age of us of through winded grain
and then to stubborn rock - like a wayward cell
off a sand-beetle’s back. I try to explain;
Even the most beautiful pebble on the shore
is just a stone when you take it home.


Lapping

September 5th, 2004

I urge you, heed the pull of tide!
Surrender to the progenies of her push and pull
across clenched toes and red arched backs -
brushing us like fleets of soft milk necklaces.
Contemplate the glassy shivers she brings
the backward gasp of her shuddered roll,
rippling through the very bones of you.
Wonderful are her splinter-glinted shoals,
the diving loop of current’s teeth and wave,
moving bed and pushing sandbank mound.
Over and over she invites our stay -
let us be joyous in the swim.


Sculptor and Stone

August 21st, 2004

When does nature turn to art?

Here he stands,
Raising hot dust from cold
Trying to fashion beauty
From brutish chisel
Strike and scratch.
Passioned blows
Seeking form, in form
Already there.

Not knowing when
These vain stabs cease
Makes him wonder.


Hiding

August 20th, 2004

We are crawling
Under the beams
Dodging flashlights
Without being seen
Yet still we crane to see
Through the darkened glass
Of who we want to be
Whispering to be opened
To be unwrapped before
The time of what may happen yet
Staying curled up like infants
Ball shadow flat against the wall.
In fear, of what we may become.


One Hand Applauds

August 18th, 2004

Oh, the whispers we might hear
if we stayed silent in the noise
listening to the audience
and not the sound of
our own voice.


See My Tarnished Bones

August 18th, 2004

The squeaking wheels
Are sluggish as they rust
The stamp of age scratched
On pitted path that’s wandering.
A line that can’t be thread or cut
Like the tin-dented rings of seasons
Marking joyous turn of the sun
Laughing when I hadn’t heard the joke
Or looked inside the strongarm jar.
In a bleached picture of unglued frame
Naked and kinked with over-use
Glasscracked in the prang and crash
Of hoisted eyes and start agains.
Once again, fresh cotton pressure creased
Smooth cornerered in turn and rough
But now in permanent tuckaway fold
Knowing that I am more than old.


Where You Left Them

August 17th, 2004

I believe,
we are made of keys;
for locks that interlock.
The more I can open,
the closer we will get.

Arggggh! I’m always losing them.


Torrent

August 17th, 2004

The fallen trees
of who you were
hiding from today
are now an angry dam
holding back the roar and flow
where should be stream
and gulley tempered gleam.

The things you said
just tiny matchsticks in the swhirl,
or riverdust in the swell.
Like helpless ants in the water -
massed behind the downhill pull.


Solace

August 17th, 2004

Worry is the purest form of prayer
a mantra in the grey of wavering
the voiced meter of our concerns
quoting the prophets of doubt.


The First Raindrop

August 16th, 2004

Before sleep,
I heard the tinkering of rain
and it made me wonder.

Where did the first raindrop fall?

On garden, chalk or tarmac path?
In quiet kinship with the ocean?
Bouncing off the shoes of drunken love?
Ahead the fray of cloudburst,
succumbed in gravity of night?

Before, somewhere.

You MUST have felt, or seen, or heard.
The velocity of a solitary liquid crown,
shattering diamond-like in impact tears.
The lead in winter’s swarm.


Deja Vu

August 15th, 2004

We were like moonlit kites twisting wildly.
For a moment, escaping the tether and dangle of life -
untiying ourselves from the velvet smooth of night.

Windward held were we - on craving’s warm air.
Soaring vista birds, in follow and blissful rise;
High, above the spooled tail of humdrum days.

I recollect this thrill in flight. I remember us like this.
Lost in the circling entrancement of each other,
tissue-paper light in the eventide.


Poemcoach

August 15th, 2004

Thank you, you are right.

You have taken the time
to try and understand
what I’m about.

But I’m too embroidered.
Crossing the gap
where telling turns
to puzzle talk.

Hiding.
Behind riddled knots
just for show.

You have reminded me -
forget the vanity
of words.


Isle of Yew.

August 13th, 2004

There’s a voice
amidst the noise of stars.
Feint, but distinctive.
Sawtoothed in wave
and cackle of ozone.

Sensed among the spark
and spin of planets through
the galaxy, like bats circling
flare-wicked candleflame.

The voice is calling.
Vague, repeating, passionate -
words that want me to understand.
Argh! I just can’t catch the drift:

“… all our youth … ill of you
… oil of hue … isle of yew …”

What is the sky trying to tell me?
Do you hear what it says?
Can YOU work this out?


Get Me There

August 12th, 2004

The road fools.
Innocence and trust
are far away.

You whisper in the engine whir.

Routes pass.
Through hungry night
Grinding me like
old teeth crunched
in ache and hope.

You grin in headlamp gleam.

No room to muse.
On more than road,
or space for touch
or breath of you.

But still I feel you - in the wheel.


Consume Immediately

August 11th, 2004

O’ when will you devour me?
Turning me endlessly over the flames -
searing my tender heart like a cheap cut
on a queasy rack; hoping to be adored cuisine,
but ending up as drunken, mangled dogleg fat.
The heat and dry baste of you overpowers me,
spoils the subtle taste and sweetened juice of who I am.
The recipe, it clearly states: I need softening.
With marinade and seasoning - patiently prepared,
long before iron grill or flash pan griddled char.
And then, and only then with licking flames of care
will you slowly warm the tender flesh of me.


They

August 10th, 2004

Who is this ‘I’ of whom everybody speaks?
They do seem very self pre-occupied.
How they feel and what they do,
it means something to them, obviously.
But what is ‘I’ to me and you?


Washpool

August 9th, 2004

I found
a pentagram
scratched out.
White chalk scrawled
on a mossey pillar box
built to stop the Nazis
in Nineteen Forty-two.
It was claimed by older boys
looking for Slow-worms,
beyond some Nettles further on,
high as eyes they grew,
sliding up to the stern-bricked house,
to inventors & their witchy wives,
experimenting.
In the valley, rubbled and burned,
a ruined mill was where I hid.
Watching and listening.
In a place - flooded now by the seasons,
the peaks and piles of age softening,
stones and cindered beams
barely sneaking through.
Across and above.
the farmer’s burred curse fell
steeply down like a pushed log rolling
through the brambles, tumbling into secrets
displacing any innocence
in the flint stream below.
I found a pentagram
scratched out and scrawled
then it was claimed by older boys,
in the Washpool, on a pillar box
where Slow-worms shed their skin.


Gone

August 9th, 2004

She said she would let him know,
when she got there, and he’s
still waiting for a sign.

Sunday, six o’clock; forever,
preparing to pounce on nuances
of a shadow calling - showing
that she made it through.

Prideful in the chore of whittled hours,
marking his bide. Onward, pressing -
noble packet and stamp waste of days.

So now, he eats strawberries
at midnight, smokes cigarettes again.
Catches the shuttered doze and whiskey grey,
of dusk’s vague promise.

Up late, getting dressed even later.
Re-reading the scattered bedside papers
still addressed to both of them.

It’s Ok. It’s Sunday, six o’clock.


Feed

August 6th, 2004

Words,
are the chickenseed
of thoughts flying low.

For clipped wings,
in the coop on the hop
of circumstance jumping
weasels in the wire.

A means,
to candle the eggs
in our tenuity
of doubt.


Difference Between

August 6th, 2004

My logic about this is simple.
Your emotions are just too elegant
for me to understand.
My drive in saying this? I can’t swim
in the world around me like you can.
When you dream - I sleep.

I close these eyes of mine
but look at all you see!
The tree and not the leaves,
riding cusp between breath and sigh,
the song and not the singer,
grand paintings in the sky.

I’m counting the notches on the road
of a journey we both share. But you…
You, are already there.


Rattle of Age

August 4th, 2004

—– withdrawn———

I wanted to write
for someone I know in distress.
I ended up writing about them.
That’s not fair.


Sluice

August 3rd, 2004

These channels are too shallow
to catch this entire granularity
spilled from rippled fall.

Dug out by tired hands that fail
to grasp the strong downhil pull
of all they want to be and do.

The intent of tomorrow should be syphoned
from the silted discontent of today.
O’ will that gravity take care of such
complex and introspective activities!

Only then, might we find diamonds
within the lucid edged furrows
of cool clearwater’s flow.


Rorschach

August 2nd, 2004

They see the devil riding
Dead ivy that clings
An inkblot weathered,
In climb over cold stone.

Insidious in ascent - like
Musty damp on the rise above
The otherworld, where urban wands
Spew roots to dusty tenement clinch.

Look upon the spoilt concrete vanity
Flourishing in this city of hasty rise
Watch impatient fall, and wonder.
What do you see?


Nightbird

August 1st, 2004

Someone told me
you were once a bird
that forgot how to land.
With restless wings that ached
to leave steadiness of earthly hands.
In flighted glide (you said) because you knew
that our fitful ways were not for you.
But now, your night and spiralled tan
lights up the room in which I swoon
bewitched - by fleeting flash of interested eyes,
all perch and hold succumbed to slipstream touch.
Someone told me that you were once a bird that forgot how to land.

Now I understand.


On Salted Wind.

July 29th, 2004

What in Heaven is nature doing now?
Her summer leaves are turning autumn brown
Some say it must be salted wind that blows
Such clement air for Aphid’s frothy crown.
But cause for rusted windburn on the green
Prefers the pause and muse of pagan wells
For grey futures not yet known or seen
Are heard like peeled notes from fractured bells.
She knows the leavened denature of ways
That bond the who we are - to how we’ve been
Staring oil blunted in stunted gaze
At slow decay of wonder’s stay unseen.
And so we blank the signals that she sends.
Complacency, denies our season’s end.


Glow.

July 29th, 2004

You are the amber snow
on the mountain top of who I am.
The electric arc glimmer
crossing the cold lake of me -
a white poppy in the rape
of my doubt


Lucksense">Lucksense

July 28th, 2004

I found a four leaf clover
It wasn’t sought - it just occurred
For me to peer below my tread and look for trove of luck.
I’ve wished upon its rarity for payback of my random find
Willing some consideration in the grand schema of being
Yet still I wait like a worn old coin resting on its side
Hoping the blackened cat of happenstance will show
The way that things could fall.


Voodoo in the News

July 27th, 2004

Only the heated pins of questioning
Can melt this wax figured spin
That denies the state we’re in.

Muting the padded batteries of flattery
To begin the ritual Voudoun dance
Of trance to Legba’s altered flags.

Raise them high on the air of denial!


Calibration

July 27th, 2004

Someone’s,
been cranking the handle
turning the gears of my day.
Mustering iron-like crunch of persistence
to tilt the balance of who I am.
They’ve been winding up the clock
with hands that circle the hours of my ways,
leveraging dedication with obligation,
and burdening my arms with plans to catch
the spinning cogs of responsibility.
I’ve been resisting the pull of these loaded wheels,
slipping the notches - slowing the steel pull of their load,
vaguely dodging my interlocked dependence on normality.
All this just to spy between twain and spite of grind -
straining to catch a fleeting glance of a silvered albatross,
cutting through the soaring blue above the machine.

That, is the beautiful distraction of you.


Goldfish

July 24th, 2004

A fishball is
rotating round
the scrapes of
my luncheon
but only one
winner is in the
swim.

His shoalsnap
on the turn
of hunger’s tide
jumps at the sun
through surface
shroud.

I think of us
with all the
to and fro
of being, and
our own chase
for instinct’s
ride.

But for now
it is time to go -
the wasps are
out.


The Company of Poets

July 22nd, 2004

There’s a poet in the city,
bringing the lungs of emotion
to silver glass and steel.
Instant soul for the nervous,
throwing off corporate robes
wearing pressed badges of
attentiveness to the wonders of grind.
Suited hearts wilt under his proxied duress.
They say; “Bravo! This IS emotional,
look - we have the graphs
to prove it.”


Stop Peeking

July 22nd, 2004

Close

your eyes.

Picture the way

these words stumble

down the page. Visualise

the shape and form of what

they say. Evoke strong feelings

within yourself at the mysteries

conveyed. Just close your eyes

and imagine…


Compliance.

July 22nd, 2004

You’ve let someone in
like a tame fox gone
bad, wild in your head -
rattling the cage of you.
The harder you shake, the
more you’ll feel grizzled
by the persistence
of their snarling way.
Leave them to run. Let
them tire, let them calm -
you’ll only get rid when
their resistence has gone.


Iceberg

July 21st, 2004

Before sky and below sea
a sharded tower - echo stilled
frozen clouds blown by cold
distilled whispers of season’s change.

Meltwater from this calm innocent
with no intent to deceive beyond
the quiet halo of noble modesty
and the glacial calves of beginning.

Growling like a lost white giant caught
in agitated seltzer of watered blue
an ice-eyed pinnacle scours flow
and grinds the floor of the world.

She craves the body of the whole.


Your Face

July 20th, 2004
    My eyes are a boat
    drifting on almond sea
    from inlet to island
    and tectonic continents
    the lines of which guide
    my tack - each curve
    and hollow tracing
    beguiled incredulity
    like a dazzled pilgrim
    travelling a worn path
    I cannot help but stare
    at the rhythms that are
    the perfect composition
    and surety of you.

All Obey the Stanza .

July 19th, 2004

Quick! Call the word police - there is someone writing poetry
Now! Arrest this voice that speaks direct to you but not to me
Without use of approved tools such foolishness should not be
They are raining down emotions - without embellished decorosity
Stop them! Sharing these thoughts. It’s too straightforward and easy
To fix such frigid magnetry and fit it in with greeting card mentality
This uncultured wordplay must cease! A chair without studied carpentry
A hunk of brutish wood that was once a useless, untamed tree
You must! You must! Ignore this common prose - for I, will not be moved.

Note: This poem features the self reflecting use of irony. No actual poets were harmed (or are addressed) in the making of this piece.


sparkle

July 15th, 2004

There is a spike of light within the shoal
Kaleidoscope corralled by ocean haul
Left flighted in the right hand swarm
Through co-ordinates unparalleled.
There is genius gold in the gravel bed
Silk patched to old corduroy of earth
Glow worm lit on abandoned track
Mesmerising strayed souls.
Darling voiced amongst the Starlings
You are the earliest, sweetest kiss
Of rain and storm to fall upon
the borders of this flock.

You shine where we are dulled.


Talent Shows

July 13th, 2004

Your modesty and restraint,
are wonderful gifts that entrance
like the pinpoint nurtured glow of a candle,
in the moss cleansed hood of nightime pine.
This is the undeniable attraction of inspiration
speaking quietly through the pores of doing,
breathing confidence though distinguished skin.
Such unshouting creativity flourishes and influences
our sight compelled to stretch beyond the catch of flame.
But we are vain to think such temporal majesty can be held!
It is humbled by its own brilliance - not humbling in itself.
And now you tell of vulnerability, of not being sure
of not believing in the cruelty of the winds we share.
There is even more intrigue in this disclosure
of you - who makes it all look so easy.


Textual Intercourse

July 11th, 2004

I’d love a strong-boned girl made from Reubens stock
Shouldering the boulders and moving the rock of me
I’d follow her love unfurled and the satin cloak of she
Dusky in the blanket musk through the gates of night.
She wouldn’t need to twist and I wouldn’t need to shout
Quietly potent in the scented motion of who we are
We’d be smouldering beholders in wonder of electricity
Together in the push and pull of what we’re all about.


At the Mouth of Regret

July 10th, 2004

There is no oil in the milk
of this coincidence, for you.
Chaperoned by the purity
of chance to read this now.

Words connect like the errant
stars you count - one by one.
But do you see all the silver
threaded textile sewn of night?

This shy reclusive truth you seek,
a search for comfort of whole.
All but the dullest pebble found
on the solitary basalt shores of now.

There’s a crazy kid trying to skim
stones across the ocean towards
somewhere they once were.
Tell them to move on.


Virus

July 8th, 2004

You have infected the system of me.
Blocking the corridors of normal operation
like a smouldering fire in the ever green
insidious in the deciduous.

I didn’t know you were in me to start.
Waving for attention like a drowning fool
just waiting to see me waving back
oblivious to your litmus.

Your transmission was beamed deep.
Triggering a change in the process of myself
like a rogue signal without permission
moving the dial to denial.

So here you now are, resident in my veins.
Rocking my steadiness and surety
like a sleepless night-sweat child
harkening through the dark.

What do you want from me?


Ache and Wane

July 6th, 2004

I’m not,
looking after myself.
Feels like my head’s been turned
inside out. One eye glued and
squinted like a drawstring bag
staying up until the late time.
I’ve been sleeping like a juggler on call
with fumbling hands that drop the ball.
Seeing steps to come but not gone by
auto piloting through the chore of day
This weariness now comes as standard
for these dry bones who need to rest
just can’t seem to concen ——–
——-trate.


Teacher’s Sail

July 5th, 2004

You are the pilot of my naive ways
Perfectly maneuvering us through
A fog of ignorance and lack of guile
Klaxon like in the authority of you
Piercing the fated crowds of night
Across the simmered sea of doubt.

I trust your calm commands to shore
Away from drift over shallow shale
Above the wrecks of young mistake
For the tide of years is a wise captain
Who has dredged these paths before
And learned - all that you teach now


Poem for the Little Ones

July 3rd, 2004

My ambivalence is an irrelevance.
For they, are the enthusiasm of life condensed.
Beautifully illuminated like playful little meteorites
plotting random vectors across my ordered sky.
The world is all but a wondrous climbing frame
for these busy souls - that cling with gravity
when told it’s time to leave.

My introspection is no exception.
For they, are the conscience of vain mundanity.
Their helium voiced, small-fry dive for pearls
is deep in the ocean of my everyday.
Jumping with such fine bones of glee,
into the boringness of me. In search, and trail
of some outrageous mystery.

My frustration should be celebration.
For they, are joyous in the suckle of discovery.
Like young bees in honey dance and thrill of find
of fragrant flowers’ golden powdered load.
My unbridled joy is in the moments shared
with their fledgling winged adventures
and wide eyed stories told.

My intent then, is the content of a diamond.
For they are oblivious to the drudge and toil -
no crowded hive or sad polluted sea and sky.
I pray that they continue to know this delight,
of whom they are today. Like moonlit flares
showing us all how amazing it is,
to be alive.


Granularity

July 2nd, 2004

Have you ever licked a snowflake
Felt its crystal heart evaporate
Beautiful complexity briefly riding
On a red hot rodeo?

Have you ever blown a dandelion
Seen parachutes of wishseeds fall
Gossamer batalions to the wind
Scattered mission - no recall?

Have you ever heard a petal roll
Listened to golden hiss on air
The roll of nature ventured
In turning of the dial?

Next time you catch the rain
Feel it light on hand
See the raindrops form
Like tiny oceans held.

Think how complex
we all are.


My King Undressed

July 1st, 2004

He rises firm necked with the sun, calling servants from the day
Dawnbreak’s cry for fervent palm and guile of masculinity
He stands aloud before begins the stir, to service of his ways
Putting all my civil qualms aside from warm vicinity
All men know this potent balm and call - this will that
cannot be ignored. For these are the orders of this king
crowned in ascent, and I must bow to his fertility.


Fisherman’s Lament.

June 30th, 2004

I am running out of words
like an angler on the bank,
trying every lure and bait
to cast and pull you in.
Stood on trampled ground,
where full of net has been
and scratching furrowed
brow to second guess the
wind.

I see bob and weave below
the surface of the pond,
spying ripples on the turn,
and the places they begin.
But there’s no rise of water,
or breaking in the spray.
So now I leave this seek and
strive for paddled shadows
of your fin.

Ah well, if not this evening,
I can wait for another time.
A new approach, a subtler style
and I may yet haul you in.


Emptyhead.

June 30th, 2004

Some days,
it’s just great
to tilt your head and
let the thoughts drop out.
Listening to the hollow
thud of your own ideas,
tumbling aimless to
the floor. It’s nice
to contemplate the joy
of mindlessness, befuddled
for awhile in a break from
knowing. Every now and then,
taking time out to let all
puddles of intellect drain
from the dome of your mind,
just so you can floss inside.
Embrace the vacumned logic
of perfect dumbness and taste the
sweet soma of its purity. It’s OK!
There’s something wise to be
learned in the beautiful blankness,
and somnolent stupor - the timeless
cleanhanded truth of saying;
‘I just don’t know’.


All is You.

June 29th, 2004

You

ask about

relationships,

of what or whom

we are, but all I’ll say

of this, is that there is

only ever one. I reveled in

the promiscuity of multitude

enthralled, but always lonely

though, until you captured me

in fall. Know that I love you

- all of you. And ask again

of us, and maybe I will

call that none is lost

and all is found.

For there is

only ever

you
.


Mocassin Fit.

June 28th, 2004

Be by my side for season’s roll
along the years of timeworn hold -
handmade measure of my ways,
moth eared wise but sometimes frayed.

Threadbare in the scuff of life,
such comforts mold familiarity
the things that calm and settle me
over step of weathered days.

And strong stitched path across the years
has formed the jagged shape and fold
of how we travel journeys made.
Companions in the ride.

From footprints where I have been
through stumble here and now,
to stride of what I may become,
my feet are bare without you.


Through.

June 28th, 2004

It’s open,
come straight in.
I’m behind the threshold,
waiting for you to fall upon
the fate of who we should be.
Bring nothing but yourself
and I will gaze in sublime hold
of white light beauty and
the ocean of your eyes.
There is only one flame I see
in the dark - and it is yours.
Take a step and come inside.
I am waiting
for you.


Vent.

June 26th, 2004

I saw the red steam rising
and thought of ways to circumvent
the climbing vapour of your despise.
A means to stop the angry mist
from settling on unlucky souls
like acrid, airborne aerosol.
But shoots of spray stay powerful
no pressure drop - or cause to stop
when flow is locked and discharge blocked.
You need to learn, to slowly turn
and open up the valve.


Chairman of the Board.

June 23rd, 2004

Goodbye Supergeek,
you have lost your domain
but long may your downhill logic
stay dudish in its bank and curve.
White collared, polite in line
where T-shirts once yelled loud,
may you surf across the brown stuff,
steady in the slalom of the day.
As an afro king, in climb and dive
the chocolate wristed compromise
and breaks of comfort’s creed,
are not for those like you.
Your Ninja wheels crave more
than a two foot curbstone ride -
but Kung Fu cool stays strong,
thrilled in jump - however high.
So long may you somersault
through the pinstripe hoops
and air conditioned flames,
leaping mundane ground
of office ramp and rail.
For you, are Supergeek!
and your magnet feats of awe,
draw raptuous applause.


Garden’s Call.

June 22nd, 2004

Now you’ve planted flowers
you’ll have to watch them grow.
Earthbound spirits in the border
of patient ground, sown in craving
sun with gentle rain to nurture.

Nature’s growing pains find solace
in your care of wonder’s veins
and shoots of tenacious youth,
audacious too, find climb to bloom
through cold wax clay.

So tend loam and budding spears
pierce winter’s call to arms of time.
Watch over the flowers that you grow,
energised by noble reaching limbs
together - in beauty’s rise.

Ah, what fascination!


Standard Class.

June 21st, 2004

I see the whole world, in carriage
No. 9, chicken stacked on shunted track
awkwardly aligned by destination
as footfall clunk and rhythm of ride.
Out of my window, stop-motion towns
like snapshot blink and snatch
assembled strobelights in the blur
from greenhill up and down
to grey high rise and logo crown.
But seated linear in the curve of life
I see without look, know without feel
feigning sleep for fear of settled gaze
or locking eyes and furtive glance.
I want to steal words of muted commune
to rustle the headlines of everyday lives
but I’m quietened in thievery of thought
whilst a pinched announcer interrupts.


Invisible Ink.

June 17th, 2004


Do you see the Shadow Man?

availed from you by vacant gaze

He steps on pavement cracks

on chewing gum and tiretracks.

A backstreet tan of hunger

in a blanket worn of mile.

He hopes for change.


Mr Immaterial.

June 17th, 2004

Today, as I stand
here readied to speak
to suits and polished hosts
and aisles smiling hopefully.
I am earnest and they are them.
All fixed gazed in quiet attention
of who knows whom and how
(and why and when and where).
To my air conditioned audience
all card pressed intersection
my whisper now turns full voiced.
I step up to the platform and smile;
“Hello” I say.

“My name … is immaterial”


Chain of Command

June 16th, 2004

My words found here
swing like rusty chains
snaking from boat to anchor,
all reeled and spooled
then rattled into shape.

Each link - an utterance
through mud and silt
crying resolute but timeworn,
as iron against the ancient
clawing salt of tide.

Many things I’ve said
are hard to pull aboard
this small ship seeking
departure for currents bold
of faster, deeper seas.

But steadied - as now
through connection’s bond
in multitude of wisened strength.
I speak, and feel - these words.
Heaved by a crew of many.


Starcrossed

June 15th, 2004

Here fall stars from lover’s robe
raining down on earthbound foil.
In monarch cloak of night are we
as light above sublime.

Let us navigate these skies
bewitched by rapture’s satellite
for here we chase the dust
of a thousand million moons.

Just hold out your hands
… and fly.


Slow Burner

June 14th, 2004

The neck of a cigarette
all shimmer and promise
straw dry in the stifle
of the hottest day.
It pretends, to shade
char of stone-dry bones
ripened under heat
from waring sun.
Mirage of sweetened air
and slow blood cooled,
the lead footed and weary
follow this shadow’s lure.
Today, I imagine this false wind
and curl up as old parchment
to stop myself inhaling
the tinderstick splinters
of its powdered air.


Your Royal Dudeness

June 13th, 2004

You are the genius slacker,
all denim words silk lined.
Life’s audacity out on show
our roadkill for the day.
For us of average ways
and those who fear to know
the purity of your dudishness,
black coal diamond in the snow.
Long may the dudicity
of your wisearsed goodness,
and your smartcracked world
stay cool and prosper well.


Vanity of Words

June 12th, 2004

I
am
vain
to think
these words
might resonate.
All pride misplaced
in the done but not the
doing. Technique is never
mystique, and clever words
alone are not enough to speak.

So let us both agree, to watch these words unfold anew.

In the being, in the seeing,
placed in the now - life’s
glorious nothingness.
Layed out for view
and framed by the
mystery of next
- the point of
fellowship,
between
you
&
I


Be Still

June 11th, 2004

Thine atom,
in contemplation.
The flow you crave is found inside
by calm stillwater, in quiet ebb.
As crystaline scintilla on the folded swell
of glacial ripple and listless tide.
Within you must wait.


The Process

June 10th, 2004

It grows stronger.
Purified, closer to the source.
No sediment, just clarity.
Every turn of the sun,
adding puposeful gravity,
to its calibrated flow.
Gently guided, filtering slow.
Watchful of energy refined,
like a wild forest stream,
cutting through mountains.
Our love distilled.


Lesson (a butterfly has two wings)

June 10th, 2004

Who is yearning?
He says to me.
Is it you?
Asks I of he.
But who is you?
He questions I.
“You are learning”
is my reply.


The Unfinished Road

June 9th, 2004

From aching bone to wisdom come,
all hear this ode of heartened mind.
From bridge of high to soul entwined,
like skipping stones of life aligned,
from stumble creep to giant step,
I sense a journey come to end.
As life reels in and thoughts contend,
to follow more than age descent,
my hours in creation’s land
all plot my path to puzzles solved.
From clay of doubt to tread resolved,
these old roads traveled can still evolve!


Sleep

June 8th, 2004

We yearn
the warm flicker
of her anodyne way.
Between tomorrow
and today - she is,
the sopor to ease all.
She carries us over
deep tribulation thrall,
helping us rise above
the sluice of discontent.
She comes to tighten the
night hatches of our eyes,
with their ever hopeful
hinges of slumber,
so we may look
within.


Wiseness of the Green

June 7th, 2004

O glory!
Says the sky.
As it reaches to circle,
luminous arms around
green frond down and
poplar spire.
A parliament of trees
awaits its governence -
nature’s capilliaries
aligned to embrace
the touch of origin.
Chorus lungs of oak
or elm, of hedgerow roots
in readiness to sing -
to praise with ardour free,
joyful verdancy.
The rape and corn of man
hear not these
ancient melodies.
and of grey grip clans,
of bread and oil and
of landscape chalkhill scarred,
the sky says
nothing.


Uneven Surface

June 2nd, 2004

If life is like a table
then its legs are self belief.
We balance what we are able
from falling underneath.
Sometimes stacked and tidy,
othertimes just a heap,
to keep our substance stable,
is our primary relief.
This platform that we care for,
on plinths of warp and creep;
life’s every level moment,
its achievements all too brief.


ThumbGen

June 1st, 2004

The teenage interface.
Neon bright, electrified,
click happy, button savvy,
always on-demand.

Instant downloadable culture,
ergonomically designed,
anything and everything,
- just press go.

Navigated by impatient hands,
left and right - now zero and one.
Hypertrophied digits,
mutating.

Be aware,
the game called real life,
may not run
on this device.


Addiction.

May 31st, 2004

Every letter bold
blood deep vanity of want.
All heal my hungry ache within
beyond glass and wire.
Every inch of my being craves
for you to read on.

Don’t stop.


Old Age

May 28th, 2004

Here I lie in patient’s well.
Twixt the weal of the hammer,
and the woe of the nail.
Wary of rust stained leaf
and dusk cold ground,
between my restless slumber,
and this shadow’s tail.
The rush of life slowed,
brings forth an other companion,
timeworn through dark eyes,
all dormant torpor stilled.
It is true - he does not come alone.


Spawn

May 27th, 2004

I see you wrenched by the grip of the current,
prised from your leap by a false aperture,
no more enough to hope, yet just enough to strive.
How can I tell you about the whole of this?
Of joyous return to the source,
and time’s circle - of journey resolved?

I fear for you wretched in the moment,
gaze fixed unerring against the spite of the water,
constantly onward and pummelled by backward flow,
How can you guess at the end of this?
Of still blue pools and nature calmed,
and yearning end?

I’ll promise you something.
Your broken skin, rock-scratched and scarred,
badge and bruise of mortal toil worn,
in end, a fated hurt embraced.
Let it flow, let it all wash away.


Urge of the Flame.

May 24th, 2004

Do you sense the rising?
The mercury of your soul,
pulled by creation’s arm?
There, within you - spirit kindled,
centre warmed.

In the hothouse,
of your precious frame,
lies a moment, slow kiln-dried,
waiting to be overwhelmed.

Delighted by the candescence,
of this - your imagination,
the grinning usher of pending heat,
is watching you ignite.


Fated.

May 23rd, 2004

We follow the orbit of a lost star,
you and I, sharing telemetry - irresistably drawn.
No mere convenience or random circumstance,
you are north to south in the spin of my life.
We are guided by quantum ghosts,
whispering across the noise of the cosmos,
and we float apon it with radiant glow,
blown gently through our lives determined.

Long live this dependence,
this vital alignment - this happenstance.
May this remain beautiful and rare,
- our wondrous mystery.


Lovesong.

May 22nd, 2004

One day,
the wind brushed
the back of my neck,
and I thought
about you.

A sudden scent,
pleasant - making me remember.
A happiness song, moving
through lips sculpted
from saccharine kisses.

Song moving air, moving me,
a breeze sent to touch me,
that I swallowed and gulped,
in case I forgot that,
I love you.


Forum Poem #1.

May 21st, 2004

Hell, we can drag this out.
today’s pleasure.
You play and I watch,
self effacement good,
found in the restraint.
To have and see the changes within,
just start doing out of the blue.
:)

(a semi-random sample of lines from SU forums)


Map of Doubt.

May 21st, 2004

Tired in the bones of life,
every breath a sigh released,
the traveller journeys on,
no step, a stride decreased.

Mired in the wet sand,
footfall etched in memory,
only recollection’s path,
marks his lost trajectory.

Waymarks of a shadowed fate,
conspired against an open route,
a weary compass held, required,
to heed his map of doubt.

But though navigation end adjourned,
and passage studied slow,
this noble traveller, remains content
to tread the earth below.


Broken Sonnet.

May 19th, 2004

I am iambic jazz sax played
no hidden skill unsold
I wield a shining
word-axe blade
to cut my word tax paid.
The notes I play are multitude
performed with athlete’s guile
triplets wrote with attitude
all inches to my mile.
Yet still I need you to approve
this struggle with the word
and though you state my prowess proved
there remains a part of me unstirred.
I pine for you to play along
I think you know a better song.


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As I Wait.

May 18th, 2004

Like a jewel of sunshine on the arc of a ripple,
and the elderly moves of a lonely cloud,
or droplets freed from fountains blown.
Beyond the confines of an ornamental source,
a downhill breeze carrying snatched birdsong,
on silent air, gossamer light above.
In this sacred space - this place of quiet,
I worship the moment where patience happens,
and wait for us to breathe as one.


The Multitude Fray.

May 17th, 2004

O’ angry insects.
I hear the crunching of wood
as your battle destroys my house.
You have descended on me through dark skies,
shared with enemies blood-feuded,
intent on the ways of the hive.
Why do you battle so?
Your blueprint is of no difference,
scratched out by a wretched swarm,
no variegation in design.
Struggling adversaries of the wing,
fury is not our syllabus,
and your ignorance in myriad,
is not mine.


Touch.

May 15th, 2004

Tonight we will forget ourselves, electrified with Reiki flow.
Skin to skin - softer than goldust on an Egypt breeze,
moving without bones through the sparkling night.
Forever overlaid and snatching passioned air,
we shall be unstopable as seaward lava.
Unbound and eternally magnetized.
Both suspended as satin blown,
on unity wind - one thought;
“two minds untethered,
… together.”


Poem of the Husk.

May 14th, 2004

Pity your eyes.
They have seen too much, but not enough.
Cross eyed stare - lost gazed across the row,
seeing detail in the detail but not the canvas.

Damn your hands.
They have felt, but do they touch?
Rough as sinew thread - hardened by ages sun,
cotton reeled and fretted like driftwood.

Curse the silence.
You do not hear, what could be said.
Murmer lost in shout - plaintive soft,
in the darkness of the quiet.

I praise your heart.
A coda strong and truthful,
still not adrift - nor blooded witness sea,
to life overflowed.

Your heart still lives, and can be heard.


Duality.

May 13th, 2004

We are,
more than one,
but each is split,
atomic like.

From me to you,
a cosmic knit,
apart alike.

Oh quantum glued,
your god permits,
lightning strikes.

Not one, but two.
Let us touch the sides
of this world,
reborn.


Son.

May 12th, 2004

Young pirates don’t watch T.V.
They loop from beam and sail,
rocking their boat,
bountifully nefarious,
laughing mad.

You is more than a game, boy!
Leave that Sorry Plaything®,
and swing.

Forget these cathode scenes,
and get some sunshine in.
Go forth, discover islands new,
hoist your pride up high.
See your cutglass smile.


Trucksong.

May 11th, 2004

(For Squirt, an old Trucker.)

Man! It’s a heavy load to haul,
that worry under tow,
with all your gearing slow,
you are speeding to crawl.

A challenge that you know,
is troublesome to call,
engine burred against a wall,
destination, zero.

You, who dare not stall,
now a motor without growl,
no traction sense below,
A lever without fall.

End this static highway show!
Seek clear directions all.
For now, take joy in measures small,
and tire stains on the road.


Submit.

May 10th, 2004

It blinks, it waits - it taunts.
A box that must be filled.
White chalk bare on a hill of thought,
words waiting, to be milled.

It thinks, debates and then, it haunts.
An intersection for the skilled.
Against the clock, no shortcut taught,
no booklet for the build.

It links, it states - it always waits.
A battle for my will.
This puzzle for my mind unsought,
left open, never stilled.


This Butterfly Does Not Know.

May 8th, 2004

Battering against the glass,
like newsprint blown,
across a barricade.
Bruised and endless vexed,
wings denied their want.
As landscape for the eye,
this struggle for seen and known,
is noble like a sand cliff,
yet futile as fragile shore.
One thousand heartbeats lost,
pulsing a plaintive lighthouse call,
to whitewater beyond.


Just Add Beer®

May 8th, 2004

Out with the loud crowd, pilot-free in the night.
Looking for zero - finding nothing.
Worlds put to right, momentarily stilled.
All drunken at the joyful bluring of the stars.


Beautiful Tone.

May 8th, 2004

You are sharp as a stylus,
wow and flutter free,
following a scratchless track.
Analogue warm, mindful of old,
adoration snatched from the air.
Delight, engineered.

If you want to stretch a string from the moon,
to my tin can heart and beyond,
I will be listening.


Daughter.

May 6th, 2004

Dancing in parallel,
me and the snowglobe girl.
Tilting my axis,
beautifully unsettled,
everytime.

She is magnified,
glass clean and artic pure,
An enchantment.

All I am and all I can be,
balanced like a leaf,
on a fairground rail,
change and motion stirred.
Just watching the flow.


Something Else to Solve.

May 5th, 2004

Maybe it’s my filters,
codebase unknown.
Pattern undefined,
orbit squared,
lens misaligned.
These mouldings squeezed,
are elder signals lost.
Tune me in.


SuperReal.

May 3rd, 2004

It’s a struggle staying painterly,
when a photograph might do.
Using paint straight out of the tube,
and not observing hue.
It’s hard to spot the brushstrokes,
in a captured point in time,
but harder still to contemplate,
which is most sublime.


Blunt.

May 2nd, 2004

These words are made of rock, crudely fashioned.
Tools to sculpt a larger stone,
such thoughts are chalkdust on the wind,
far and rudely blown.


Dude.

May 1st, 2004

You and me, we’re floating off tribulation flow.
Beyond the worried ocean - way past the undertow.
Surfing through the breakers wading, deep and slow,
you are ship and I am shore,
tidal pulled below.


Work it Out.

May 1st, 2004

Paint the corners first,
Rubik mix, then shake the box.
You’re the one they’ll never solve,
Straight piece missing, broken edged.
Attractively packaged,
but no right way up,
not up nor down.
Self-build enigma.


Juliette’s Father.

April 30th, 2004

First in honour, now in memory,
behind a wall and down a hill.
His secret garden grows.

Calm harbour, amidst bracken leaves,
kind to all and patient still.
A sacred place that knows.

Verdant wise and endless houred,
of life forestalled but yet, fulfilled.
Nature’s joy bestowed.


Friendship Overdue.

April 29th, 2004

Oh distant soul.
Let us venture friendship.
Without negotiation,
or word association.
Let us be as sorted corn,
side by side, not mixed up fire thorns.
You may not know me now,
but I know who you want to know,
for I am one of those.
So, friend in wait,
let us think of kinship,
without reproach or fear.
For we have hope and wonder,
to last us through this year.


Let the Moon Astound.

April 28th, 2004

Ladies and Gentlemen!

Don’t be earthbound,
as a shadow,
clinging to the floor.
Rise above the ground,
leave this dustball below stars,
and lose your earthly anchor.

Friends and Strangers!

The sky abounds,
for you today,
to love and to adore.
Galaxies surround,
your avatar,
a playground to explore


Why:Is:The:Clock:Not:Our:Own?

April 27th, 2004

Why do we toil,
twixt the furrow and brow,
working human soil,
with a broken plough.

Why do we graft,
life and employ,
such guileless craft,
with little to enjoy.

Should not we fashion,
our own self worth,
based on passion,
rather than convenient berth?

Should not we strive,
for new ways and free,
thoughts to a life,
not travailing debris?

Yet still we build,
these needful foundations,
just adequately skilled,
and a numb generation.


Dark Holding

April 26th, 2004

If I go blind, see for me.
Lead me through a darkened life,
as I shuffle towards a change of light.

If our eyes no longer intersect,
tell me the way onward.
Still without words.

When the hood of these eyes,
is forever noosed and tightened,
will you be my guide?


All But Kiss.

April 25th, 2004

Here I go again,
turning word tricks,
for the poem pimp.

Lying on my back.
feeding the habit,
of an addict soul.

Every word you read,
is my release.

Purge this emptiness,
let me satisfy you.

Want me.


Do You Know ?

April 24th, 2004

Of all the blooms,
you last the longest.
For all the night,
you shine.

Clear voiced,
against the white noise.
You resonate.
Defined.

You grow,
where others wain.
The strongest,
of the vine.

A secret scent,
beguiling.

… never mine.


Silent Dust.

April 23rd, 2004

Hands of leather, iron strong,
white wire haired and always tall.
Map-faced wise and joyous in the new,
wind spirited, yet quiet,
of the old.

Oh knowing gardener of souls,
patient of storms distilled.
You are deep blooded,
noble eyed,
all seeing all.

No more.


Soulscape.

April 22nd, 2004

We are all,
but grains of sand falling,
through a child’s hand.

Draining through,
a sieve of fingers,
hauled by forces,
not within us.

Humbled,
at our hurtle down,
and trembling,
as we strike the ground.

We are reclaimed,
as land for sea,
and tide to take,
our destiny.


When Particles Collide

April 22nd, 2004

We share an electron charge, you and I.
Word and thought polarity,
crystalline tuned.

Pulsed from a lost lighthouse,
out there, in here and everywhere.

Circling transmissions, found.


a/s/l?

April 21st, 2004

Hey you.
I give good word.
Be my laptop dancer -
make me tilt.

I’m intermittently indeterminate,
anonymously public.
I touch -
type.

What are you wearing?
I’m wearing thin.


Old Wood

April 21st, 2004

This is a door that you are passing through,
every word you read is a degree of openess,
textured and ancient veined,
close it when you leave.


Million Mile Eyes

April 20th, 2004

I swim in your eyes,
towards magnetic north,
but still I am lost.

Time stretched like kitestring,
clock not wise,
pulling me downward.

We are one,
but one is two,
and two means more than one.

Caressed by saline blue,
I travel without myself,
seeking ripples within.